THE    ARREST. 


MARY    BUNYAN, 


DREAMER'S   BLIND   DAUGHTER. 


A  TALE   OF  EELIGIOUS   PERSECUTION. 


fit 

SALLIE    ROCHESTER    PORD, 

AUTHOR   OF   "  GRACE   TRUMAN." 


NEW   YORK 
SHELDON   &  COMPANY,  335  BROADWAY, 

BOSTON:   GOULD   &   LINCOLN. 

1865. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 
SHELDON    &    COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerks  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New- York. 


J.    H.    TOBITT, 
COM BI N AT  I O N -TTPS      PRINTEK, 

1  Franklin  Square,  N.  T. 


Stack 
Annex 


MARY   BUNYAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE      ARRE  S  T  . 

Two  hundred  years  ago  !  Since  then  what  changes 
have  passed  over  "  Merry  England." 

Two  hundred  years  ago  there  stood  in  Bedfordshire, 
near  Harlington,  a  low,  thatched  cottage,  the  dwelling 
of  a  pious  husbandman.  To  it  let  us  go. 

It  is  a  calm  autumnal  evening.  The  sunset  sleeps 
upon  the  green  hills  and  twilight  drops  her  curtain. 
The  labors  of  the  day  are  over,  and  around  the  kitchen 
hearth  are  gathered  the  rustics  of  the  adjoining 
hamlets,  awaiting  in  eager  expectancy  the  coming  of 
one  who  shall  break  to  the  hungry  the  bread  of  life, 
and  speak  words  of  cheer  to  the  fainting. 

A  noble  figure,  clad  in  the  peculiar  garb  of  that  age, 
stands  at  the  door  and  knocks.  It  is  John  Bunyan. 

The  door  is  opened,  and  he  is  admitted.  A  kindly 
welcome  greets  him.  He  passes  among  the  little  com 
pany,  shaking  the  hand  of  each,  and  speaking  a  friend 
ly  vvoid  to  all.  He  is  about  to  seat  himself  by  an  aged 

sister,  when  tho  master  of  the  houpe  hurries  up  to  him, 

(in 


12  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

and  drawing  him  aside,  whispers  in  an  eager  agitated 
voice  : 

"  Oh  Mr.  Bunyan,  there  is  a  warrant  out  against  you, 
and  the  officers  are  on  the  look-out  for  you.  "We  can 
not  have  our  meeting.  They  are  prowling  around  here, 
and  if  they  find  you  they  will  carry  you  to  the  Justice, 
and  he  will  send  you  to  prison.  You  must  leave." 

"  What,  brother,"  says  Bunyan,  "go  away  and  not 
have  the  meeting?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Bunyan,  they  are  in  search  of  you, 
and  they'll  have  you  in  prison  if  they  can  find  you." 

"  It  is  true,  Mr.  Bunyan,  what  he  tells  you,"  said  a 
white-haired  man  in  the  group ;  "  the  warrant  is  out, 
and  they  are  hunting  for  you  now." 

"  And  what  if  they  are,"  says  Bunyan,  "shall  I  dis 
miss  the  meeting  for  this  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  of«what  spirit  they  are,  and  I  tell  you 
they  will  send  you  to  prison." 

"  What  if  they  do  ?  I  will  by  no  means  stir,  neither 
will  I  have  the  meeting  dismissed  for  this." 

He  spoke  with  the  calm,  decided  tone  of  one,  who, 
knowing  what  was  before  him,  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  meet  the  worst. 

"  But  what  will  become  of  us  when  you  are  impris 
oned?" 

"  Oh,  brother,"  replied  Bunyan,  "  come,  be  of  good 
cheer ;  let  us  not  be  daunted ;  our  cause  is  good,  we 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  it.  To  preach  God's  word  is 
so  good  a  wrork  that  we  shall  be  rewarded  if  we  suffer 
for  that." 

Seeing  that  he  could  not  be  dissuaded  from  his  pur 
pose,  they  left  off  their  entreaties,  and  seated  them- 


THE  ARREST.  13 

selves  amid  the  restless  group,  whose  anxious  question 
ings  attested  deepest  interest. 

But  before  entering  upon  the  meeting  he  "  walks  out 
into  the  close  seriously  to  consider  the  matter,"  to  lay 
it  before  God,  and  to  ascertain  his  will. 

The  twilight  is  throwing  its  dusky  shadows  acrosa 
the  sward  and  over  the  peaceful  straw-thatched  homes 
of  the  villagers.  He  walks  to  and  fro  in  the  little  gar 
den  in  pensive  soliloquy,  and  thus  he  reasons  with  him 
self  : 

"  I  have  shown  myself  hearty  and  courageous  in  my 
preaching,  and  have  made  it  my  business  to  encourage 
others.  What  will  my  weak  and  newly  converted 
brethren  think  if  I  now  run  away  ?  "Will  they  not  say, 
*  He  is  not  so  strong  in  deed  as  in  word  ?'  And  if  I 
should  run,  now  that  there  is  a  warrant  out  for  me, 
will  it  not  make  them  afraid  to  stand  when  great  words 
only  shall  be  spoken  to  them  ?  And  seeing  that  God 
has  chosen  me  to  go  in  this  forlorn  hope  in  this  coun 
try — to  be  the  first  that  is  offered  for  the  gospel — if  I 
should  fly,  it  will  be  a  discouragement  to  the.  whole 
body  that  may  follow  after.  And  will  not  the  world 
take  occasion  at  my  cowardliness  to  blaspheme  the  gos 
pel  ;  will  they  not  have  some  ground  to  suspect  worse 
of  me  and  my  profession  than  I  deserve  ?  For  blessed 
be  the  Lord,  I  know  of  no  evil  which  I  have  said  or 
done.  I  will  see  the  utmost  of  what  they  can  say  and 
do  unto  me.  I  will  not  flinch  if  God  will  stand  by  me." 

Noble  words  of  a  noble  heart  !  Who,  but  the  man 
stayed  on  Israel's  God,  could  utter  them  ? 

Willing  to  brave  all  for  Him  who  had  "  led  him  into 
his  own  words,"  he  "  comes  again  to  the  house  with 


14  MAKT   BUNYAN. 

the  full  resolution  to  bold  the  meeting,  and  not  to  go 
away. 

His  face  is  radiant  with  the  light  of  trust  and  hope 
as  he  enters  the  little  room  and  approaches  the  stand 
whereon  rests  the  Bible. 

"  Let  us  bow  in  prayer,"  says  the  holy  man  ;  and 
each  one  of  the  little  company  kneels.  How  earnestly 
they  supplicate  the  throne  of  mercy ;  how  fervently 
they  plead  the  promises  of  the  God  of  Sabaoth ! 
They  feel  their  need,  and  as  feeble,  helpless  creatures 
they  venture  into  the  presence  of  the  great  I  Am. 
But  listen  to  their  leader,  as  in  deep,  fervid  tones,  he 
sends  up  his  cry  for  help.  His  faith  is  strong,  and  he 
comes  u  boldly"  to  a  throne  of  grace.  How  his  zeal 
and  trust  inspire  the  hearts  of  the  less  resolute  !  Hear 
him  say,  in  the  full  belief  of  what  he  utters,  "  God  will 
not  cast  away  his  chosen  people,  neither  will  he  suffer 
their  enemies  to  triumph ;  but  with  a  mighty  hand  and 
an  out-stretched  arm  he  will  lead  them  on  to  victory. 
The  horse  and  the  rider  are  slain,  and  they  that  work 
iniquity  shall  be  consumed  ;  but  he  that  trusteth  in 
the  Lord  shall  never  be  confounded,  world  without  end." 

How  like  a  healing  balm  fall  those  words  of  faith  on 
the  bleeding  bosoms  of  those  whose  joy  had  been 
crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  the  oppressor  ;  and  tears 
of  thanksgiving  stream  down  the  face  of  many  a  bowed 
suppliant. 

They  arise.  He  takes  the  Bible  from  the  stand,  and, 
opening  it,  reads :  "Dostthou  believe  on  the  Son  of 
God  ?"  How  searching  the  question,  how  suitable  to 
the  occasion  !  What  a  touch-stone  to  their  faith  !  As 
Christ  had  asked  of  him  whom  "  they  might  cast  out," 
so  would  his  servant  ask  of  his  people  that  tl;eir  faith 


THE   AKREST.  15 

might  be  made  manifest ;  and  as  the  despised  castaway 
had  answered,  so  would  they  now,  "  Lord,  I  believe." 

"  But  as  he  reads  strange  voices  are  heard  without ; 
eager,  anxious  looks  are  bent  upon  the  door — it  opens. 
And  there  stands  before  them  two  unfamiliar  forms. 
It  needs  not  words  to  tell  them  they  are  the  constable 
and  the  justice's  man;  and  the  officers  have  but  to 
cast  their  eye  over  the  little,  assembly  to  find  the  ob 
ject  of  their  search.  There  he  sits,  his  eye  steadily 
fixed  upon  them,  with  his  finger  pointing  to  the  text  as 
if  he  would  ask  them  too,  "  Dost  thou  believe  on  the 
Son  of  God  ?" 

They  stand  before  him,  and  producing  their  war 
rant  command  him  to  follow  them. 

He  remembers  the  apostle  says,  "  Let  every  soul  be 
subject  to  its  higher  powers ;  so  he  closes  the  Bible  and 
rises  to  do  their  bidding. 

"We  fancy  we  hear  him  exclaim  with  the  apostle,  as 
he  looks  the  officers  in  the  face  :  "  I  am,  ready,  not  to 
be  bound  only,  but  also  to  die  at  Jerusalem  for  the 
name  of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  Well,  then,  come  along  with  us,  for  the  justice  is 
ready  for  you." 

"  Stay  a  moment,"  says  Banyan,  as  he  moves  toward 
the  door.  He  turns  round,  and  addresses  the  weeping 
assembly.  All  is  hushed  to  silence  ;  even  the  hirelings 
of  the  law  dare  not  interrupt  him,  as  he  proceeds  to 
exhort  the  little  group  to  patience  and  long  suffering 
for  the  Master's  sake. 

"  We  are  prevented,  you  see,  brethren,  of  an  oppor 
tunity  to  speak  and  to  hear  the  Word  of  God,  and  are 
likely  to  suffer  for  the  same.  But  be.  not  discouraged 
my  dear  brethren  ;  it  is  mercy  to  suffer  on  so  good  an 


16  MAKY   BUNYAIf. 

account.  We  might  have  been  apprehended  as  thieves 
or  murderers,  or  for  other  wickedness ;  but  blessed  be 
God  it  is  not  so — we  suffer  as  Christians  for  well  do 
ing,  and  we  had  better  be  the  persecuted  than  the  per 
secutors." 

"  Leave  off  your  cant  and  come  along  with  us,"  says 
the  justice's  man,  interrupting  him,  "  this  is  no  time  for 
such  talk." 

He  commends  the  little  company  to  the  care  and 
guidance  of  God,  and  departs  with  the  officers. 

But  as  it  happened  the  justice  was  not  at  home  that 
night.  A  friend  of  his  engaged  to  bring  him  to  the  con 
stable  on  the  morrow  morning,  and  he  was  released 
from  custody. 

And  now  let  us  go  with  him  to  the  bosom  of  his 
family,  and  see  the  brave  man  there,  beset  on  every 
side  by  persecution  and  affliction  :  there  let  us  see 
what  it  was  that  supported  him  amid  his  deep  trials, 
and  nerved  his  great  heart  to  bear  without  murmuring 
the  vile  accusations  of  his  enemies,  enabling  him  to  ex 
claim  in  the  fulness  of  determination  :  "  The  Almighty 
God  being  my  help  and  shield,  I  will  suffer  until  even 
the  moss  shall  grow  on  mine  eyebrows,  if  frail  life  con 
tinue  so  long,  rather  than  violate  my  faith  and  princi 
ples."  And  again,  on  a  future  occasion,  when  he  was 
passing  through  deep  waters  :  "  "Were  it  lawful,  I 
would  pray  for  greater  trouble,  for  the  greater  comfort 
sake ;"  and  yet  again,  "  I  have  been  able  to  laugh  at 
destruction,  and  to  fear  neither  the  horse  nor  his  rider." 

Was  not  this  an  unchanging,  sublime,  eternal  trust ; 
that  faith  which  "  reaches  within  the  veil  and  lays 
hold  on  the  crown  ?" 

He   separates   from   his    friends,    and    slowly    and 


THE   ARREST.  17 

thoughtfully  finds  his  way  to  his  cottage.  He  is  not 
fearing,  neither  is  he  doubting  the  precious  promises 
— only  he  cannot  tell  how  to  break  the  intelligence 
to  his  wife.  With  head  bent  and  downcast  eye, 
he  walks  leisurely  on,  while  fear  and  hope  alternate 
strive  for  victory.  The  light  through  the  little  front 
window  meets  his  eye  as  he  passes  up  the  green.  His 
heart  is  big  with  sorrow  as  he  thinks  of  his  faithful  Eliz 
abeth,  his  poor  blind  Mary,  and  the  little  ones — all  so 
dependent  upon  him  for  their  daily  bread.  How  can 
lie  tell  them  that  it  may  be  he  will  go  to  prison  ?  It 
will  almost  break  their  hearts  to  hear  that  he  must  be 
taken  from  them  !  From  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  sends 
up  agonizing  prayer  to  God  for  direction  in  this  mat 
ter.  For  though  the  clouds  are  as  thick  darkness 
around  him,  he  has  read  "  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  are 
upon  the  righteous,  and  his  ear  is  open  to  their  cry." 

The  simple  evening  meal  has  been  eaten  in  the  little 
cottage  at  Elstow,  and  the  family  are  gathered  around 
the  winter  fire.  The  "  faithful  wife"  is  engaged  with 
her  sewing  by  the  lamp  which  burns  on  the  stand, 
whereon  rests  the  Bible.  The  book  is  open  before  her ; 
for  the  father  is  away,  and  she  has  read  a  chapter  to 
the  children,  and  bowed  with  them  in  prayer.  The 
blind  daughter  is  rocking  the  youngest  child  to  sleep, 
while  the  other  two  children  pursue  their  quiet  play  by 
their  mother's  side.  The  old  high-backed  chair  stands 
vacant  in  the  corner,  waiting  the  return  of  the  master. 

"  God  will  give  them  strength,"  he  says,  as  he  pauses 
on  the  door  stoop. 

He  enters;  Mrs.  Bunyan  looks  up  surprised,  arid  there 
is  an  expression  of  wonder  and  fear  on  the  sightless 
face  of  the  blind  child,  for  she  recognizes  the  well- 


18  MAKT   BUNYAN. 

known  step  before  a  word  is  spoken.  The  children 
leave  off  their  play,  for  they  are  gl  ad  to  see  the  father 
back.  They  note  not  the  unseasouableness  of  the  hour. 

"  You  are  home  early  to-night  1  Did  you  have  your 
meeting  ?"  asks  the  wife  in  a  tone  which  betrays  the 
anxiety  of  her  heart. 

"  No,  the  officers  came  and  broke  up  our  meeting, 
and  brought  me  away." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  away  from  them  ?  won't 
they  follow  you  ?"  asks  the  wife  eagerly,  for  astonish 
ment  and  alarm  are  increasing  every  moment. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  have  not  fled  from  justice  ;  they  suf 
fered  me  to  come  home  to-night,  as  the  justice  was 
away." 

He  seats  himself  in  the  old  chair  ;  eagerly  the  wife 
listens  while  he  relates  his  story. 

"Just  as  we  were  in  the  midst  of  our  meeting  the 
constable  came  in  with  his  warrant  to  take  me,  and 
would  not  give  me  time  to  finish  my  preaching,  but 
hurried  me  away,  only  letting  me  speak  a  few  words  of 
counsel  and  encouragement  to  the  people ;  and  he 
would  have  brought  me  before  the  justice,  but  that  he 
was  not  at  home  to  day  :  so  a  friend  engaged  to  bring 
me  to  them  to-morrow  morning,  otherwise  the  consta 
ble  must  have  given  me  to  a  watch  or  secured  me  in 
some  other  way  ;  my  crime  is  so  great." 

"  And  must  you  go  to-morrow  to  be  tried  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  sol  have  promised,  and  I  must  not  forfeit 
my  word." 

"  But  oh,  my  husband,  if  they  should  send  you  to 
prison  !" 

"  Well,  Elizabeth,  if  the  Lord  wills  it  we  must  sub 
mit.  He  will  not  put  more  on  us  than  he  will  give 


THE   ARREST.  13 

us  strength  to  bear.  If  we  must  suffer,  it  is  in  a  good 
cause,  and  we  must  be  of  good  cheer.  It  will  all  be 
right  in  the  end." 

He  speaks  hopefully ;  but  as  the  tears  start  to  the 
eyes  of  the  loving  wife,  and  the  sadness  deepens  on 
the  darkened  face,  a  sigh  comes  up  from  the  heart  of 
the  brave  man  :  "  What  will  become  of  his  wife  and 
children  if  he  is  taken  from  them  ?  Who  will  give 
them  food  and  raiment  r' 

"  What  shall  we  do,"  asks  the  wife  imploringly,  "  if 
you  have  to  leave  us?  We  have  but  little  to  eat  now, 
and  when  you  are  gone  who  will  give  us  more?" 

"  God  will  take  care  of  his  children,  my  Elizabeth. 
He  feeds  the  sparrows,  and  He  will  feed  you  ;  and  be 
sides,  they  may  not  send  me  to  jail ;  perhaps  they  will 
let  me  go  free  after  they  have  tried  me.  I  cannot  think 
they  will  imprison  me  for  reading  the  Scriptures  and 
explaining  them  to  the  people." 

"But  fche  judges  are  so  hard-hearted,  my  husband. 
They  send  all  to  prison  who  will  not  conform  to  the 
rules  of  the  church.  I  heard  yesterday  of  two  who 
were  thrown  into  jail  at  Bedford,  without  having  a  fair 
trial,  and  they  may  treat  you  so." 

"  Well,  we  will  hope  for  the  best,  Elizabeth.  God 
will  overule  it  all  in  righteousness — we  must  give  it  up 
into  his  hands." 

"  But,  my  dear  husband,  if  they  should  send  you  to 
prison,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Who  will  give  us  bread  ?" 

This  is  a  gloomy  picture  even  for  his  brave,  trusting 
heart — his  family  pinched  with  hunger  and  cold,  and 
he  shut  up  in  the  walls  of  a  dungeon  !  He  bows  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  a  groan  comes  up  from  the  depths 
of  his  soul  as  he  contemplates  it.  The  little  boys  look 


20  MAEY   BUNYAlf. 

on  with  timid  wonder.  'Tis  a  strange  sad  sight  to  them 
to  see  their  father  thus  oppressed  with  grief. 

A  hand  is  laid  on  his — an  arm  thrown  around  his 
neck,  and  a  voice  whispers  in  his  ear,  "  Do  not  be 
grieved,  father,  if  they  do  send  you  to  prison  ;  I  will 
help  mother  to  take  care  of  the  children." 

He  looks  up  as  the  gentle  tones  fall  upon  his  ear. 
The  sightless  eyes,  eloquent  with  sympathy  and  love, 
are  turned  to  his. 

"  It  is  hut  little  you  can  do,  my  poor  child,  with  your 
feeble  hands  and  darkened  eyes,"  replies  the  father 
sorrowfully. 

"  But  I  can  do  something,  father  ;  1  can  take,  care 
of  the  children  when  mother  goes  out  to  work,  and  I 
can  hoe  in  the  garden  when  summer  comes." 

His  eye  rests  on  the  delicate  blue-veined  hand  fixed 
in  his,  and  then  on  the  upturned  rayless  eyes,  and  he 
heaves  a  deeper  groan  as  he  thinks  of  what  hardships 
this  poor  child  must  endure  if  he  should  be  condemned. 

"  And  I  can  bring  wood  for  mother,"  interposes 
Thomas,  tire  oldest  son,  "  and  help  sister  in  the  garden 
and  carry  the  things  to  market." 

"  But  it  will  be  a  long  time  till  summer,  my  boy, 
and  you  must  live  through  this  cold  winter  ;"  and  the 
father  strokes  the  white  hair  of  the  innocent  boy,  and 
thanks  God  for  the  sympathy  of  his  children. 

"  If  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  Elizabeth,  and  I 
must  go  to  prison,  we  must  trust  in  the  Lord  for  the 
future.  He  will  give  us  meat  in  due  season,  and  grace 
to  enable  us  to  keep  up  under  all  of  our  trials.  I  will 
speak  to  neighbor  Harrow,  to-morrow,  as  I  go  to  Bed 
ford,  and  get  him  to  attend  to  you  if  I  should  not  come 
back.  He  can  get  together  the  little  sums  that  are 


THE   AKREST.  21 

owing  me,  and  this  will  help  you  for  a  while  ;  and, 
when  this  is  gone,  God  will  provide  some  means  of 
support.  He  has  said,  'No  good  thing  will  he  with 
hold  from  them  that  walk  uprightly,'  and  we  must  not 
doubt  Him. 

"  But  I  hope  they  will  not  sentence  me,  seeing  that 
I  have  done  nothing  but  read  the  Scriptures  and  ex 
plain  them  to  the  people.  But  if  they  do,  I  must  not 
flinch,  but  be  willing  to  stand  all  manner  of  persecu 
tion  for  the  Gospel's  sake." 

Thus  with  words  of  hope  and  trust,  does  his  tried 
soul  endeavor  to  comfort  and  sustain  the  sinking  heart 
of  his  wife. 

She  is  a  woman  of  a  brave  heart  and  great  fortitude 
and  she  leans  for  support  on  His  Word  who  has  said 
"  Fear  not,  I  am  with  you."  But  this  trial  is  so  sore, 
so  sudden,  the  issue  so  momentous,  so  fatal  should  her 
husband  be  found  guilty  that,  for  the  time,  she  can  see 
nothing  before  them  but  despair  and  death. 

Thus  the  evening  passes.  The  little  family  at  El- 
stow  are  in  the  wilderness  ;  the  enemy  is  in  pursuit, 
the  mountains  rise  on  either  side,  the  sea  is  before 
them.  "Will  there  be  no  rod  uplifted,  no  hand  stretched 
out  for  their  deliverance  ?  "Will  there  be  no  "  pillar 
of  cloud "  to  give  them  light,  which  shall  also  be  a 
cloud  and  darkness  to  their  enemies  ? 

"  Fear  not,"  stricken  ones,  "  stand  still  and  see  the 
salvation  of  the  Lord,  which  he  shall  show  you." 

The  morrow  comes.  Bunyau  is  up  betimes,  that  he 
may  meet  his  word  and  not  keep  the  officer  waiting. 
He  bids  his  wife  and  children  farewell  for  the  time, 
commending  them  to  God  and  bidding  them  "  be  of 
good  cheer,"  for  he  thinks  he  will  soon  come  again  to 


•22  MART   BCNYAN. 

them.  The  wife  parts  from  him  with  a  sorrowful,  deject 
ed  heart ;  Mary  embraces  him  affectionately  and  turns 
round  to  weep,  while  the  little  ones,  Joseph  and  Sarah, 
kiss  him  and  bid  him  "  come  back  again  soon  ;"  Thomas 
goes  with  his  father  to  Bedford  to  bring  home  the 
tidings  of  the  trial. 

On  the  way  Bunyan  is  joined  by  the  friend  who  had 
engaged  for  his  appearance.  He  stops  a  few  moments 
at  neighbor  Harrow's  to  speak  to  him  about  his  family's 
destitution. 

"  I  will  see  after  their  wants,  friend  Bunyan,  if  you 
do  not  get  back,  but  God  grant  that  they  may  send  you 
free." 

"  I  trust  they  will,  but  if  they  do  not  it  will  all  be 
right,  brother  Harrow. ' 

They  shake  hands,  the  neighbor  committing  the  pris 
oner  to  the  protection  of  God,  and  wishing  him  a 
speedy  return.  They  part — one  to  offer  up  a  silent 
prayer  for  his  brother  in  the  Lord,  who  is  dragged 
along  by  the  cruel  hand  of  persecution,  perhaps  to  a 
felon's  death  ;  the  other  to  go  on  his  way,  "  rejoicing 
that  he  is  counted  worthy  to  suffer  for  His  name." 

Engaged  in  holy  conversation,  he  and  his  friend  pass 
along, Thomas  all  the  time  wondering  how  it  is  his  father 
can  talk  so  composedly  about  going  to  jail.  The  very 
thought  of  the  old  prison  standing  on  the  bridge  which 
he  lias  sometimes  seen,  with  its  heavy  black  walls  and 
small  iron-grated  windows,  fills  his  childish  mind  with 
horror.  He  starts  as  he  thinks  of  its  dreadful  form,  and  yet 
his  father  says,  "  Rather  than  give  up  preaching  I  will 
go  to  it  gladly."  Strange  language  to  his  untaught 
heart.  The  mystery  was  solved  in  after  years,  when 
"  the  Spirit  gave  him  utterance,"  and  he  too  felt,  while 


THE   ARREST.  23 

proclaiming  the  "  unsearchable  riches  of  the  Gospel  of 
Christ,"  that,  although  imprisonment  might  await  him 
yet  would  he  not  cease  "  to  declare  the  whole  counse 
of  God." 

They  find  the  constable  in  waiting  for  them.  He  is 
eager  for  his  work.  Cruelty  feeds  on  itself  and  fattens, 
and  this  heartless  tool  of  a  parasitic  magistracy,  en 
gages  in  this  work  of  death  with  a  zest  scarcely  less 
fiendish  than  that  of  the  Roman  tyrant  who  desired 
that  the  head  of  Christianity  might  be  struck  off  with 
one  blow.  Hastening  the  prisoner  to  court,  he  con 
ducts  him  before  the  justice. 

"With  magisterial  dignity  Justice  "Wingate  eyes  him 
and  then  turning  to  the  constable  asks  :  "  And  where 
did  you  find  him  ?  Where  were  they  met  ?  And  what 
were  they  doing?" 

"  I  found  him  at  Samsell,  your  Honor.  There  were 
only  a  few  met  together  to  preach  and  hear  the  "Word." 

"And  what  had  they  with  them?"  (meaning  what 
arms.) 

"  They  had  nothing  but  their  Bibles,  your  Honor ; 
no  sign  of  anything  else  ;  and  the  prisoner  here  was 
just  beginning  to  preach." 

The  justice  turns  upon  Bunyan  with  a  frown  of  in 
dignation,  and  in  a  harsh  voice  asks  : 

"And  what  were  you  doing  there  ?" 

Bunyan  looks  at  him  mildly,  yet  firmly,  and  in  a 
firm  tone  that  can  be  heard  by  all  present  replies  : 

"  The  intent  of  my  going  there  and  to  other  places 
is  to  instruct  and  counsel  people  to  forsake  their  sins 
and  close  in  with  Christ,  lest  they  miserably  perish." 

"  And  why  don't  you  content  yourself  with  your 


2d  MARY    BUN Y AN. 

calling  ?  Don't  yon  know  that  it  is  against  the  law 
for  such  as  you  to  do  as  you  have  been  doing  ?" 

"  But  I  can  do  both  of  these  without  confusion," 
says  the  prsioner  promptly.  "  I  can  follow  my  calling 
and  preach  the  "Word  also." 

"  What,"  says  the  justice,  chafing  with  anger.  "  Then 
I'll  break  the  neck  of  your  meetings,  that  I  will." 

Bunyan  unmoved  answered  calmly,  "  It  may  be  so." 

The  Justice,  losing  all  self-possession,  exclaims, "  Pro 
duce  your  sureties,  man,  or  I  will  send  you  to  jail." 

Two  friends  are  ready  to  go  his  security,  and  they 
are  called  in. 

The  bond  for  his  appearance  being  made,  the  Jus 
tice  turns  to  the  sureties,  "  You  are  bound  to  keep  this 
man  from  preaching ;  do  you  hear  ?  If  you  don't  your 
bonds  are  forfeited." 

"  Then  I  shall  break  them,"  interposes  Bunyan,  in 
terrupting  him,  "  for  I  shall  not  leave  off  speaking  the 
Word  of  God,  nor  cease  to  counsel,  comfort,  exhort, 
and  teach  the  people  among  whom  I  come  ;  for  I  think 
sir,  this  work  has  no  hurt  in  it,  but  is  rather  worthy  of 
commendation  than  blame." 

"  If  you  will  not  be  so  bound,"  says  the  Justice, 
tnrning  to  the  sureties,  "  his  mittimus  must  be  made 
and  he  shall  go  to  jail,  to  lie  there  till  the  quarter  ses 
sions." 

"  Make  out  the  mittimus,"  commands  the  Justice, 
and  retires. 

The  prisoner  stands  with  folded  hands,  awaiting  the 
order  to  prison. 

While  the  mittimus  is  being  made,  there  comes  in 
Dr.  Lindale,  "  an  old  enemy  to  the  truth,"  who  falls  to 


THE  ARBEST.  25 

x 

reviling  and  taunting  the  man  of  God,  to  whom  Bun- 
yan  says, 

"  I  did  not  come  hither  to  talk  with  you,  but  with 
the  Justice." 

The  "  old  enemy,"  supposing  he  had  nothing  to  say 
for  himself,  triumphs  as  if  he  had  the  victory,  charging 
and  condemning  him  for  meddling  with  that  for  which 
he  could  show  no  warrant. 

Insolently  he  questions  him,  "  Have  you  taken  the 
oaths  ?  If  you  have  not  it  is  a  pity  but  that  you  should 
be  sent  to  prison." 

"  Had  I  a  mind,  I  could  answer  any  sober  question 
you  could  put  to  me,"  is  the  calm  rejoinder. 

Confident  of  victory  the  "  old  enemy"  asks,  "  Then 
can  you  prove  it  is  lawful  for  you  to  preach  ?" 

"  Doth  not  Peter  say,  'As  every  man  hath  received 
the  gift,  even  so  let  him  minister  the  same.'  And  the 
prisoner  looks  him  steadily  and  fully  in  the  face,  to 
show  that  he  could  answer  him  if  he  listed. 

"  Ay,"  saith  the  old  enemy  sneeringly,  "  to  whom  is 
that  spoken  ?" 

"  To  whom  ?  "Why  to  every  man  who  hath  received 
a  gift  from  God."  "  Mark,"  and  the  "  sharp  quick  eye" 
of  the  defendant  lights  up  as  he  speaks,  "  Mark,  saith 
the  apostle,  '  As  every  man  hath  received  a  gift  from 
God,  even  so  let  Mm  minister  the  same,'  "  and  again, 
"  You  may  all  prophesy,  one  by  one." 

"Whereat  the  "old  enemy"  is  a  little  stopped  and  goes 
a  softlier  pace  ;  but  not  willing  to  lose  the  day,  he  be 
gins  again. 

"  Yea,  indeed,  I  do  remember  of  one  Alexander  a 
coppersmith,  who  did  much  oppose   and  disturb  the 
2 


26  MARY   BUNYAK. 

apostles."  (This  is  a  thrust  at  Bimyan  because  he  is 
a  tinker.) 

"  And  I  too  have  read  of  very  many  priests  and 
Pharisees  that  had  their  hands  in  the  blood  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"  Aye,  and  you  are  one  of  those  Scribes  and  Phari 
sees  ;  for  you,  with  a  pretence,  make  long  prayers  to 
devour  widows'  houses." 

"  What,"  says  Bunyan ;  "I  tell  you,  man,  if  you 
have  got  no  more  by  preaching  and  praying  than  I 
have  done,  you  would  not  now  be  so  rich." 

But  he  remembers  it  is  written,  "  Answer  not  a  fool 
according  to  his  folly,"  so  after  this  he  is  as  sparing  of 
his  speech  as  he  can  be  without  prejudice  to  truth. 

The  mittimus  is  made  out,  the  prisoner  is  committed 
to  the  constable,  and  hurried  off  to  jail.  A  crowd 
gathers  around  as  he  is  borne  along,  some  with  sympa 
thetic  hearts,  while  others,  with  the  spirit  of  the  ancient 
persecutors,  cry  "  away  with  him,  away  with  him." 

They  move  as  rapidly  onward  as  the  crowd  will  per 
mit. 

"  Stay,  constable,"  cry  two  of  his  brethren,  coining 
up  in  breathless  haste.  At  the  tone  of  command  the 
officer  halts. 

"  You  must  not  go  to  jail.  We  think  we  can  pre 
vail  with  the  Justice  to  let  you  go  at  liberty.  We 
have  a  friend  who  will  intercede  for  you.  We  must 
back  to  the  Justice." 

So  the  two  men  joined  by  a  third,  hasten  to  the  court 
room  to  speak  to  the  Justice.  They  talk  long  with  him 
and  come  running  out  again  to  the  prisoner. 

u  Oh,  if  you  will  come  to  him  again,"  they  exclaim 


THE   ARKEST.  27 

with  increased  agitation,  "  and  say  some  words,  he  will 
release  yon." 

And  what  are  those  words  ?  "  Speak  no  more  in  his 
name."  The  same  bait  had  been  vainly  offered  his 
disciples  sixteen  hundred  years  before.  Should  it  tempt 
him  from  his  integrity  ?  Hear  his  answer. 

"  I  will  not  promise.  If  the  words  are  such  as  can 
be  said  with  a  good  conscience,  I  will  say  them ;  if  they 
are  not,  I  will  not." 

They  importune  him,  and  he  goes  back  with  them, 
not  believing  that  he  shall  be  delivered.  He  knows 
the  spirit  of  the  minions  of  the  law  too  well ;  they 
are  too  full  of  opposition  to  the  truth  to  let  him  go  un 
less  he  should  in  some  way  or  in  some  thing  dishonor 
his  God  and  wound  his  conscience. 

But  he  casts  it  all  upon  the  Lord,  wherefore  as  he  goes 
along  he  lifts  up  his  heart  to  God  for  light  and  strength 
to  help  him,  that  he  may  not  do  anything  that  would 
either  dishonor  him  or  wrong  his  own  soul,  or  be  a 
grief  or  discouragement  to  any  that  was  inclining  after 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

The  Justice  is  awaiting  his  return.  Another  person 
age  comes  suddenly  out  of  another  room,  and  seeing 
him  thus  greets  him — "Who  is  there — John  Bunyan  ? 
and  with  such  seeming  affection  as  if  he  would  leap  on 
his  neck  and  kiss  him.  (A  right  Judas.) 

This  is  a  Mr.  Foster  of  Bedford.  Bunyan  has  but  lit 
tle  acquaintance  with  him  ;  has  seen  him  but  a  few 
times.  All  that  he  knows  of  him  is,  that  he  has  ever 
been  a  close  opposer  of  the  ways  of  God,  and  he  won 
ders  that  he  should  carry  himself  so  full  of  love  to  him 
now.  But  it  is  soon  explained.  Then  he  remembers 
those  sayings,  "  Their  tongues  are  smoother  than  oil, 


28  MAET  BUNYAN. 

but  their  words  are  drawn  swords."  And  again,  "Be 
ware  of  men." 

With  feigned  surprise  this  new  busy-body  asks  "But 
tell  me  Mr.  Banyan,  how  it  is  that  you  are  here  ?  I 
was  little  expecting  to  see  you  in  this  place." 

Ah,  you  "  right  Judas,"  do  you  think  to  deceive  him 
now,  and  win  him  by  your  flattery  ? 

Bunyan  turns  a  full  look  on  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  in  a  calm  significant  tone  replies  : 

"  I  was  attending  a  meeting  of  people  a  little  way 
off,  intending  to  speak  a,  word  of  exhortation  to  them  ; 
but  the  Justice  hearing  thereof,  was  pleased  to  send 
his  warrant  to  fetch  me  before  him." 

"  Ah,  ah,  I  understand  ;  but  if  you  will  promise  to 
call  the  people  no  more  together,  you  shall  have  your 
liberty  to  go  home  ;  for  my  brother  is  very  loth  to  send 
you  to  prison  if  you  will  but  be  ruled,"  says  this 
"right  Judas,"  coaxingly. 

"  Sir,  pray,  what  do  you  mean  by  calling  the  people 
together  ?  My  business  is  not,  anything  among  them 
when  they  are  come  together  but  to  exhort  them  to 
look  after  the  salvation  of  their  souls,  that  they  may  be 
saved." 

"  Hist,  hist !"  exclaim  he,  putting  his  hand  soothingly 
on  his  shoulder,  "  we  must  not  enter  into  explication 
or  dispute  now,  Mr.  Bunyan  ;  only  say  you  will  not 
call  the  people  any  more  together  and  you  shall  have 
your  liberty;  otherwise  you  must  be  sent  away  to 
prison." 

"  Sir,  I  shall  notforce  or  compel  any  man  to  hear  me  ; 
but  if  I  come  into  any  place  where  there  are  people  met 
together,  I  shall  to  the  best  of  my  skill  and  wisdom, 


THE   AEREST.  29 

exhort  and  counsel  them  to  seek  after  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  for  the  salvation  of  their  souls." 

"  But  this  is  none  of  your  work,  "  impetuously  replies 
the  "  right  Judas,"  losing  his  self-possession,  "  you  must 
follow  your  calling.  If  you  will  leave  off"  preaching 
and  follow  your  calling,  you  shall  have  the  Justice's 
fuvor  and  be  acquitted  presently." 

"  Sir,  I  can  follow  my  calling  and  preach  the  word 
too  ;  and  I  look  upon  it  as  my  duty  to  do  them  both 
as  I  have  opportunity." 

"  But  such  meetings  are  against  the  law  ;  therefore 
you  must  leave  off,  and  say  you  will  not  call  the  people 
any  more  together." 

"  I  dare  not,"  replies  the  brave  man,  "  make  any 
further  promise  ;  my  conscience  will  not  suffer  me  to 
do  it,  for  I  look  upon  it  as  my  duty  to  do  as  much  good 
as  I  can,  not  only  in  my  trade,  but  also  in  communica 
ting  to  all  people,  wheresoever  I  can,  the  ~best  know 
ledge  I  have  in  the  world." 

"  The  '  "best  knowledge  /'  "Why,  you  are  nearer  the 
Papists  than  any,  and  I  can  convince  you  of  it  imme 
diately." 

"  Wherein?"  asks  the  confessor,  boldly. 

"  In  that  you  understand  the  Scriptures  literally." 

"  Those  that  are  to  be  understood  literally  we  under 
stand  so,  and  those  that  are  to  be  understood  otherwise 
we  endeavor  so  to  understand  them,"  replies  the  noble 
defender  of  the  faith. 

"  Ah,"  replies  the  old  enemy,  "  and  which  of  the 
Scriptures  do  you  understand  literally  ?" 

"  This  sir  :  '  He  that  believes  shall  be  saved.'  This 
is  to  be  understood  just  as  it  is  spoken.  For  whoever 


30  MAKY    BUNYAN. 

believeth  in  Christ  shall,  according  to  the  plain  and 
simple  words  of  the  text,  be  saved." 

A  derisive  smile  curls  the  lip  of  the  interlocutor. 
"  You  are  ignorant,  and  don't  understand  the  Scrip 
tures.  How  can  you  understand  them  when  you  do 
not  know  the  original  Greek  ?" 

"  If  that  be  your  opinion,  sir,  that  none  can  under 
stand  the  Scriptures  but  those  who  have  the  original 
Greek,  then  surely  but  very  few  of  the  poorest  sort  will 
be  saved.  Yet  the  Scriptures  saith,  'That  God  hides 
these  things  from  the  wise  and  prudent,'  that  is  from 
the  learned  of  the  world, '  and  reveals  them  to  babes 
and  sucklings.' " 

"  But  there  are  none  that  hear  you  but  a  company  of 
foolish  people." 

"You  mistake  yourself,  sir;  the  wise  as  well  as  the 
foolish  do  hear  me.  Those  that  are  most  commonly 
counted  foolish  by  the  world,  are  the  wisest  before 
God  ;  for  God  hath  rejected  the  wise,  and  mighty,  and 
noble,  and  chosen  the  foolish  and  the  base." 

"  But,  man,  you  make  people  neglect  their  calling. 
God  has  commanded  people  to  work  six  days  and  serve 
him  on  the  seventh" 

"  Ah,  sir,  it  is  the  duty  of  people  both  rich  and  poor 
to  look  out  for  their  souls  on  these  days  as  well  as  for 
their  bodies ;  and  God  commands  his  people  to  '  exhort 
one  another  daily,  while  it  is  called  to-day.' ': 

The  meddler  stands  confounded.  The  tinker  shows- 
himself  an  approved  workman. 

Breaking  into  a  rage,  he  again  exclaims,  "  But  they 
are  none  but  a  company  of  poor,  simple  ignorant  peO' 
pie,  that  come  to  hear  you." 

"  The  foolish  and  the  ignorant  have   most  need  of 


THE    AKEEST.  31 

teaching ;  therefore  it  will  be  profitable  for  me  to  go 
on  in  my  work." 

"  But  will  you  promise  not  to  call  the  people  together 
any  more  ?  If  you  will  you  may  be  released  and  go 
home." 

"I  dare  not  say  any  more  than  I  have  said.  I  dare 
not  leave  off  that  which  God  has  called  me  to." 

Then  this  "  right  Judas"  withdraws  to  advise  with 
his  friend  the  Justice.  "While  they  are  in  counsel  sev 
eral  of  the  Justice's  servants  gather  round  the  prisoner 
telling  him  that  he  "  stands  too  much  on  a  nicety. 
Our  master,"  they  say,  "  is  willing  to  let  you  go  if  you 
will  say  that  you  will  call  the  people  no  more  together. 
If  you  will  but  make  this  promise,  you  may  have  your 
liberty." 

He  returns  them  the  same  answer — "  I  dare  not 
promise." 

Presently  the  council  being  ended,  in  come  the  Jus 
tice  and  Mr.  Foster  (the  right  Judas),  and  urge  him  to 
promise  that  he  will  hold  no  more  meetings. 

But  Bunyan  is  not  to  be  moved  by  persuasion  any 
more  than  by  threats  and  flattery.  There  he  stands  in 
vincible,  panoplied  with  truth. 

"  Then  send  him  away  to  prison,"  says  Mr.  Foster  to 
the  Justice  in  a  rage,  "  and  it  will  be  well  for  all  the 
others  to  follow  him." 

And  thus  they  parted,  the  prisoner  and  the  judges. 
The  one  to  imbrue  their  .hands  yet  more  deeply  in  the 
blood  of  the  saints  ;  the  other  to  the  gloomy  dungeon 
which  shall  be  made  radiant  by  the  indwelling  pres 
ence  of  the  "  Light  of  the  World."  Even  as  he  was 
going  out  of  the  doors  of  the  public  hall,  he  "  had 


32  MABY   BUNYAN. 

much  ado  to  forbear  saying  to  them  that  he  carried  the 
peace  of  God  along  with  him  ;"  but  he  keeps  silent 
and  "  blessed  be  the  Lord,  went  away  to  prison  with 
God's  comfort  in  his  soul." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   SHADOW   ON   THE   HEARTH. 

"  How  long  father  stays,  mother  !  Do  you  think  he 
will  come  back  to  day  ?"  and  Mary  left  off  her  work 
for  a  moment,  and  turned  her  sightless  eyes  up  to  her 
mother's  face  sorrowfully. 

"  I  hope  so,  my  child  !  God  only  knows,"  and  the 
fearful  wife  drew  a  long  breath,  while  the  tears  started 
to  her  eyes. 

The  child  heard  the  sigh,  and  understood  it ;  and 
she  left  off  her  questioning,  and  tried  by  little  kind  of 
fices  to  raise  from  her  mother's  heart  a  portion  of  the 
care  and  apprehension  which  were  pressing  it  so  heavily. 

Mrs.  Bunyan  had  watched  through  the  long  weary 
morning  hours  for  her  husband's  return.  At  first,  her 
hope  was  strong  and  confident.  She  felt  that  they 
could  substantiate  no  accusation  against  him  worthy  of 
imprisonment,  and  she  could  not  believe  they  would 
thro  whim  into  jail  under  false  pretenses.  But  as  hour 
after  hour  wore  by  and  brought  no  news  of  him,  her 
hope  by  degrees  grew  less  strong,  until  at  last,  surprised, 
she  found  herself  counting  "  all  the  cost"  of  his  firm 
adherence  to  his  principles.  As  we  have  before  said 
she  a  was  brave,  noble  woman,  one  of  fortitude  and  true 
courage,  and  she  had  also  that  hope  "  which  is  an  anchor 

2*  (33) 


34  MART   BUNYAN. 

to  the  Boul,  sure  and  steadfast."  And  she  will  need  it 
now,  poor  woman,  for  the  storm  is  gathering  black  and 
fierce. 

After  the  sad  farewell  with  her  husband,  she  had 
gone  about  her  usual  household  duties  with  her  wonted 
cheerful  countenance  and  quick  active  step ;  and  if 
now  and  then  she  paused  listless  and  abstracted,  it  was" 
but  for  a  moment ;  she  rallied  her  energies,  and  pur 
sued  her  morning  round. 

The  sun  shone  in  through  the  little  front  window, 
and  as  it  stretched  its  flood  of  golden  radiance  farther 
and  farther  along  the  floor,  measuring  the  flight  of 
the  silent  hours,  her  heart  grew  fainter  and  more  faint. 
Often  would  she  turn  aside  from  her  cares  to  look 
across  the  yard  in  the  direction  of  Bedford. 

The  two  pursued  their  work,  each  endeavoring  to 
console  and  comfort  the  other. 

Maiy  is  now  twelve  years  old.  In  thought,  in  feel 
ing,  far  beyond  her  years !  With  deep,  quick  sympa 
thies,  and  a  maturity  of  mind  attributable  to  the  cir 
cumstances  of  her  outer  life,  which  caused  her  to  think 
and  to  reason,  she  was  a  companion  for  her  mother, 
who,  though  her  senior  by  several  years,  was  yet  young, 
Bunyan  having  married  her  after  the  death  of  his  first 
wife,  and  about  the  time  she  attained  her  majority. 

"  Do  you  think  father  will  come  home  to  dinner, 
mother  ?  I  will  set  a  plate  for  him,  and  I  do  hope  he 
will  come." 

"  I  hope  so,  my  child,  but  I  see  nothing  of  him  now," 
and  the  mother  closed  the  door,  choked  down  the  ris 
ing  sigli  and  went  to  work  to  finish  little  Joseph's 
stockings. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEAKTH.  35 

"  Don't  you  think  Thomas  would  be  back  before  this 
if  father  was'nt  coming  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  your  father  would  have  sent  him  to 
tell  us  how  the  matter  ended,  if  he  was  not  coming 
himself." 

"•  What  are  they  going  to  put  father  in  that  old  jail 
for,  mother?  He  has'nt  done  anything  bad,  has  he?" 
asked  Joseph  as  he  placed  himself  by  his  mother's  side 
and  looked  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"  No,  my  son,  he  has  only  preached  the  gospel." 

"  Why,  that  is  a  good  work,  father  says.  How  can 
they  put  him  in  jail  for  that?" 

"They  say  he  disobeys  the  king." 

"  And  don't  the  king  want  anybody  to  preach, 
mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  but  he  wants  them  to  do  it  as  he 
says,  and  in  no  other  way." 

"  And  why  don't  father  preach  the  king's  way  mother? 
Then  they  could'nt  take  him  away  from  us  and  put  him 
in  that  old  ugly  jail.  I  wish  father  would  mind  the 
king,  don't  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Your  father  must  mind  God,  Joseph,  and  do  what 
he  says.  He  cannot  preach  as  the  king  wishes,  because 
he  would  not  be  preaching  as  he  believes  God's  book 
teaches." 

"  I  wish  father  would'nt  preach  at  all,  mother !  Then 
they  would'nt  put  him  in  prison,  would  they  ?" 

"  No,  my  son  :  but  your  father  thinks  he  ought  to 
preach ;  he  thinks  God  lias  told  him  to  do  it,  and  you 
know,  Joseph,  the  Bible  says  we  must  obey  Him 
rather  than  man." 

"  I  am  glad  I  don't  have  to  preach,  mother.  I  would 


30  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

be  afraid  to  go  to  the  jail  to  live  there.     I  do  hope  they 
won't  put  father  in,  do  you  think  they  will,  mother?" 

"  I  hope  they  will  not,  my  child,  but  your  father 
will  not  give  up  preaching,  even  if  they  do.  He  would 
rather  live  in  jail  all  the  rest  of  his  life-  than  do  it." 

"  Why,  mother,  father  can't  preach  in  jail,  and  I 
don't  see  what  he  wants  to  go  there  for.  Why  won't 
he  quit  preaching,  and  stay  at  home  with  us  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  Joseph,  so  that  you  will  know 
what  I  mean.  When  you  get  older,  you  will  under 
stand  why  your  father  would  rather  go  to  prison  than 
to  disobey  God." 

The  little  child  could  not  comprehend  it,  so  he  turned 
thoughtfully  from  his  mother's  knee,  and  went  to  play 
with  Sarah  in  the  corner. 

"  We  will  not  wait  for  your  father  any  longer,  Mary. 
The  children  are  very  hungry  and  we  will  eat.  Perhaps 
he  has  stopped  at  Neighbor  Harrow's  to  get  his  dinner." 

It  was  the  wife's  last  hope,  and  her  sinking  heart 
clung  to  it  with  the  death  like  grasp  of  despair.  The 
little  family  seated  itself  around  the  plain  simple 
board,  and  with  tearful  eye  the  mother  humbly  asked 
for  God's  blessing  upon  them  while  they  should  par 
take  of  it.  It  was  a  sad  silent  meal,  for  fear  had  sealed 
all  utterance.  Often  before  had  they  gathered  around 
the  frugal  table  when  the  father  was  away,  but  then 
they  knew  he  would  come  again.  Now  that  comfort 
ing  assurance  was  gone,  and  fearful  apprehension  sat  a 
dread  unwelcome  guest  in  their  midst.  The  children 
hushed  their  innocent  prattle  as  they  saw  the  mother's 
sad  face  and  heard  her  heavy  sigh,  and  cast  on  each 
other  looks  of  childish  wonder  and  inquiry.  Mary  es 
sayed  again  and  again  to  speak  words  of  hope  to  her 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEARTH.  .,        37 

*  X 

motlier,  but  her  own  heart  was  almost  as  sorrowing  as 
her's. 

The  dinner  hour  passed,  and  the  evening  came  ;  and 
yet  no  tidings  of  the  father.  Their  only  stay,  now,  was 
derived  from  the  fact,  that  Thomas  had  not  yet  returned. 
On  this  they  hung  the  faint  hope,  that  the  trial  though 
a  long  and  troublesome  one,  would  end  well  for  the 
prisoner. 

"  Hark,  mother,  I  think  they  are  coming.  I  hear  the 
dog  barking,  and  that  is  Tom  whistling,  I  believe." 

The  mother  sprung  to  her  feet.  She  opened  the 
door,  and  looked  out  in  every  direction.  The  dog  was 
barking  in  front  of  the  house,  but  she  heard  no  whistle, 
and  saw  no  one. 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  child.  .  I  can't  see  anybody, 
and  I  have  looked  every  w-ay  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

She  seated  herself,  and  again  took  up  her  knitting. 
Disappointment,  sad  and  despairing,  marked  her  noble 
face.  Mary  closed  her  rayless  eyes,  and  as  she  did  so 
the  lids  turned  out  the  scalding  tears.  The  children 
kept  on  at  hushed  play,  sometimes  looking  at  their 
mother  and  sister  with  mute  wonder,  and  then  again 
forgetting  everything  like  sorrow,  they  pursued  their 
childish  plays  mirthfully. 

The  door  opened ;  all  eyes  were  raised.  Thomas 
stepped  in.  No  one  followed. 

"  Your  father,  Thomas,  your  father,"  exclaimed  the 
agitated  mother,  throwing  aside  her  work  and  looking 
eagerly  up  to  the  boy.  '"  Where  is  your  father,  Thomas  ?' 

"  In  jail,  mother,"  the  little  fellow  sobbed  out,  "  they 
have  put  father  in  jail."  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  wept  aloud.  Her  fortitude  forsook  her — • 
her  resolution  gave  way.  Mary  started  from  her  seat 


38  .      MAEY   BUN  VAN. 

y 

and  bent  towards  the  weeping  mother.     The  children 
crying,  clung  to  her  with  fright  and  wonder. 

The  storm  had  burst  in  its  wrath  over  the  tinker's 
dwelling.  Was  there  no  hand  to  stay  its  fury,  no  oil 
to  calm  its  troubled  waters,  no  voice  heard  above  its 
roar  and  din,  saying  in  tones  omnipotent,  "  Thus  far 
shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther  ?" 

"  In  jail,  Thomas  !  Have  they  sent  your  father  to 
jail?"  asked  Mrs.  Bunyan,  her  face  pale  with  terror. 

"  Yes,  mother,  that  they  have.     I — saw — him — go." 

Tears  and  sobs  choked  her  utterance  as  this  last  an 
swer  shut  out  every  possible  ray  of  hope.  The  shadows 
of  despair  wrapped  themselves  closely  around  her,  and 
for  some  minutes  she  could  see  nothing  but  their  thick 
darkness.  After  a  while  a  faint  glimmering  ray  strug 
gled  through  the  blackness  of  her  sorrow,  and  shone 
feebly  in  upon  her  bursting  heart.  "  The  bruised  reed 
he  will  not  break.  Light  is  sown  for  the  righteous, 
and  joy  for  the  upright."  "  "Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he 
chasteneth,"  whispered  the  Angel  of  the  Covenant,  and 
as  the  sweet  low  voice  stole  in  upon  her  soul  she  ceased 
her  weeping ;  and  again  she  heard  the  gentle  tones, 
"  He  shall  deliver  thee  in  BIX  troubles,  yea,  in  seven 
there  shall  no  evil  touch  thee."  "  He  hath  torn  and 
He  will  heal ;  He  hath  smitten  and  He  will  bind  up. 
Come  unto  me  and  find  rest.  I,  even  I,  am  he  that 
comforteth  thee." 

Tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes  and  her  voice 
was  still  broken  with  the  storm  of  grief  that  had  swept 
through  her  bosom,  as  she  looked  into  the  sorrowing 
face  of  the  boy  beside  her  and  asked  : — 

"  Did  they  try  your  father,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  they  had  him  there  a  long  time." 


THE  SHADOW  OX  THE  HEARTH.  39 

"  Were  they  harsh  to  him,  Thomas — the  judges?" 
and  her  woman's  heart  almost  broke  at  the  thought  of 
the  rudeness  and  contempt  they  might  have  heaped 
upon  her  dear  husband  whom  she  might  not  again  see. 

"  They  did  not  strike  him,  mother ;  and  they  didn't 
speak  much  unkind  to  him,  only  once  the  man  got  mad 
and  said  he  was  going  to  break  the  meeting's  neck." 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  frame  of  the  blind 
child  as  this  harsh  language  fell  upon  her  ear. 

"  Going  to  break  the  meeting's  neck.  "What  did  he 
mean  by  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what ;  that's  what  he  said.  Father 
told  him  he  must  preach,  and  the  man  didn't  want  him 
to  do  it,  and  said  if  father  would  do  it,  then  he  wrould 
break  the  meeting's  neck." 

"  Who  said  this  to  your  father,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Mr.  Wingate,  the  great  man  that  sat  in  the  big 
chair." 

"  And  they  sent  your  father  to  prison  because  he 
would  preach  the  gospel,  did  they  ?  Well,  thank  God 
it  was  for  no  crime  !" 

"  Yes  ma'am,  they  did,  for  soon  after  the  man  said  he 
would  break  the  meeting's  neck,  they  started  with 
father  to  the  jail  ;  but  they  brought  him  back  as;ain 
and  tried  him  over." 

"  How  was  this  ?  Did  they  want  to  insult  him 
again  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  As  they  were  going  to  jail  they 
met  two  men  that  father  knew,  and  they  would  take 
him  back  with  them  to  see  if  they  couldn't  get  him  off 
from  going  to  jail,  and  let  him  come  home." 

"  And  what  did  they  do  with  him  after  they  caified 
him  back  ?" 


40  MARY   BUNYAN. 

"  They  kept  asking  him  if  he  would  leave  off  preach 
ing,  and  father  said  he  would  not.  Then  they  said  if 
he  would  not  do  that,  he  must  go  to  prison.  All  the  big 
men  said  so." 

"  How  long  is  he  to  stay  in  prison,  Thomas  ?"  asked 
the  wife  eagerly,  her  voice  tremulous  with  emotion. 

"  They  said  till  the  quarter  sessions.  I  don't  know 
how  long  that  is,  mother — but  a  long  time  I  believe." 

The  wife  sat  as  one  stupefied,  rendered  insensible, 
by  the  suddenness  and  force  of  some  mighty  and  un 
expected  blow.  That  which  she  had  most  feared  had 
come  upon  her,  and  her  house  was  left  unto  her  desolate. 
What  could  support  her  under  this  grievous  afflic 
tion  ?  Poverty  around  her,  four  little  helpless  children 
to  feed,  and  before  the  horologe  should  have  measured 
many  more  days  of  sorrow,  a  n'fth  should  open  its  eyes 
upon  the  heartless  world,  more  than  fatherless  ;  her 
husband  vilely  cast  into  prison  for  preaching  the  word 
of  God,  there  to  be  in  pain  and  neglect  till  death 
should  end  the  scene.  Oh,  how  dark  all  these  things 
were  to  her — how  mysterious — she  could  not  under 
stand  them.  Had  not  God  forgotten  to  be  gracious? 
Had  he  not  cast  them  off  forever  ?  "Where  now  was 
the  Gentle  Shepherd  of  Israel  ?  The  lambs  of  his  fold 
were  perishing — exposed  to  the  pitiless  blast,  and  lie 
folded  them  not  to  his  bosom,  nor  gently  led  them  into 
green  pastures.  They  called  upon  him,  but  he  was  not 
near,  and  there  came  no  cheering  voice  of  his  to  bid 
them  "  be  strong  and  fear  not." 

Could  the  hand  of  faith  have  torn  aside  the  veil,  and 
her  eye  peered  into  the  glories  of  the  future — that  glory 
which  was  to  radiate  with  unfading  beam  that  narrow 
prison-cell  where  the  holy  man  of  God  lay  incarcera- 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEARTH.  41 

ted,  waiting  to  see  "  the  salvation  of  the  Lord,"  and 
that  immortality  which  was  to  gather  around  his  name 
making  it  the  watchword  of  religious  truth  and  liberty 
through  all  ensuing  ages  until  time  itself  shall  be  no 
more — that  heart  so  bowed,  so  broken,  would  have 
looked  up  and  taken  fresh  courage — yea,  would  have 
sung  praises  unto  his  name,  who  remembers  Israel  in 
all  his  afflictions,  who  "  bringeth  light  out  of  darkness, 
who  leadeth  his  people  by  a  w^&y  they  know  not." 

"Mother,  won't  father  come  back  any  more  ?"  asked 
little  Joseph  timidly,  his  eyes  filled  with  wonder,  as  he 
again  stole  up  to  his  mother's  side. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  little  one  ;  your  father  is  in 
prison  now," 

"  Did  they  put  father  into  that  old  ugly  jail,  mother  ?" 
and  the  child  began  to  cry  piteously. 

"  Yes,  Joseph,  they  have  put  your  father  in  the  jail, 
and  you  may  never  see  him  again." 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  thought  of  her  father 
less  children  and  her  own  desolate  condition  overpow 
ered  her,  and  she  could  not  proceed  any  farther. 

Mary  removed  the  children  from  the  weeping 
mother,  and,  providing  them  with  amusemen't,  returned 
to  console  her. 

"  You  had  better  lie  down  and  rest  now,  mother ; 
you  are  weary  ;  you  have  been  busy  all  this  day ;"  and 
she  gently  placed  the  pillow,  and  taking  her  mother's 
hand,  led  her  to  the  bed,  where  the  poor  woman  lay  in 
a  state  of  almost  unconscious  helplessness.  Then  re 
membering  that  Thomas  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
the  early  morning,  she  prepared  him  something  warm, 
moving  about  so  noiselessly  and  with  such  a  dark 
shadow  of  grief  upon  her  angel  face,  that  could  the 


•4    '.  MARY   BUNYAN. 

"  nnjust  judge"  but  have  seen  her,  his  heart  would 
si.  rely  been  moved  to  pity,  and  he  would  have  said  to 
tl  e  prisoner,  "  Go  free  even  for  thy  daughter's  sake." 

Mrs.  Bunyan  was  aroused  from  the  troubled  slumber 
into  which  she  had  fallen  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Mary  opened  it,  and  the  wife  of  neighbor  Harrow  step 
ped  in. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Sister  Bunyan  ?  Don't  get  up  be 
cause  I  have  come  in,"  and  the  good  woman  stepped 
to  the  bedside  to  shake  hands  with  the  pale  sufferer. 
"  Bro."  Bunyan  stopped  by  my  house  a  little  while  this 
morning,  as  he  was  on  his  way  to  Bedford  to  see  my 
good  man,  and  when  I  saw  Thomas  coming  back  with 
out  him,  I  thought  I  would  run  in  a  minute  or  two  and 
see  how  things  had  gone.  You  look  pale.  "What's  the 
matter  ?  Are  you  sick  ?" 

"  Oh,  Sister  Harrow,  I  am  undone,  undone !  They 
have  put  my  poor  husband  in  prison,"  and  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  and  bowed  her  head  upon  her 
bosom.  She  could  not  weep.  The  fountain  of  tears 
was  dry. 

41  Have  they  ?  and  what  did  they  do  that  for  ?  He's 
done  nothing  to  go  to  jail  for,  I  know." 

"  They  put  him  there  for  preaching  the  gospel  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  This  was  all  they  could  say 
against  him." 

"Put  him  there  for  preaching  ?  Oh,  what  a  shame ! 
God  will  punish  them,  I  know  he  will.  He'll  not  suffer 
his  children  to  be  treated  in  this  way  without  scourging 
their  persecutors.  I  feel  it  here."  She  laid  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  and  looked  up  to  heaven  with  faith  and 
resignation. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEAKTH.  43 

"  Oh,  but  Sister  Harrow,  my  husband  is  taken  from 
me.  What  shall  I  do  with  these  poor  little  children  ?" 

"  Be  of  good  cLeer.  The  Lord  will  not  let  you  want. 
What  has  he  promised  ?  Don't  he  say  I  will  be  with 
you  in  six  troubles,  and  the  seventh  shall  not  harm  you  ? 
It  looks  dark  now  and  fearful,  but  thank  God  he  will 
bring  us  out  of  all  our  troubles,  and  make  all  our  paths 
straight  to  our  feet." 

"  But  who  will  feed  these  children  now  their  father 
is  gone  ?"  ^ 

"  Why  they  have  got  a  father  left.  Jesus  will  take 
care  of  them.  Don't  he  say  I  will  be  a  father  to  the 
fatherless.  He  feeds  the  ravens  when  they  cry,  and 
do  you  think  he  will  let  his  children  want  for  bread  ? 
Oh,  no ;  he  is  too  good  for  that — blessed  be  his  name. 
Remember  Elijah  in  the  wilderness,  sister,  and  Daniel 
in  the  lion's  den,  and  the  Hebrew  children  in  the  fiery 
burning  furnace,  heated  seven  times  hotter  than  ever  it 
was  before.  Didn't  he  deliver  all  them  out  of  their 
troubles,  sister  Bunyan,  and  won't  he  deliver  you? 
Yes  ;  that  he  will,  my  blessed  Master.  I  feel  it  here 
this  minute,"  and  she  placed  her  hand  on  her  bosom, 
while  her  upturned  countenance  glowed  with  the  faith 
and  trust  that  filled  her  soul. 

"Trust  him,  my  sister,  trust  him;  I  tell  you  he  will 
not  deceive  you.  '  He  is  the  same  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  forever.'  Give  yourself  up  into  his  hands,  and 
don't  you  trouble  yourself  so  much  about  what  is  to 
come.  He'll  give  you  strength  according  to  your  trials 
I  tell  you  he  will." 

"  But  I  deserve  nothing  but  chastening  and  affliction 
at  the  hands  of  God.  I  am  so  forgetful  of  his  love  and 
mercy  to  me.  I  stray  so  into  forbidden  paths." 


44  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

"  All,  that's  what  we  all  do.  If  we  received  what 
we  deserve  at  his  hands,  what  would  become  of  us 
poor  sinful  creatures  ?  We  ought  to  bear  our  trials 
without  murmuring,  for  we  know  they  are  for  our 
good.  God  is  merciful,  and  he  does  not  send  these 
•things  on  us  willingly,  only  to  keep  these  poor  sinful 
hearts  from  forsaking  him.  "What  did  dear  old  David 
say  in  all.  his  distresses  ?  Didn't  he  say,  '  Before  I  was 
afflicted  I  went  astray,  but  now  I  have  kept  thy  \vord.' 
How  sweet  Bro.  Bunyan  talUfcd  on  this  very  passage  of 
scripture  when  he  was  at  my  house  only  last  week  to 
mend  my  old  kettle.  My  old  man  had  just  been  tell 
ing  me  of  the  king's  orders,  and  how  he  feared  trouble 
would  be  abroad  in  the  land,  and  that  all  the  non-con 
forming  preachers  would  have  to  go  to  jail,  or  leave 
the  country  forever.  I  had  been  thinking  about  it  all 
the  morning,  and  I  said  to  myself  what  will  become  of 
us  if  Bro.  Bunyan  is  taken  away  ?  It  seemed  my  heart 
would  burst  with  a  great  burden  here.  I  don't  know 
why  it  was  I  felt  so.  It  must  have  been  the  Spirit  of 
God  bearing  witness  with  my  spirit  of  this  very  thing. 
I  had  been  going  along  with  a  heavy  heart  ever  since 
breakfast.  I  couldn't  shake  off  the  load  that  was  here, 
Sister  Bunyan  ;  it  would  stick  by  me.  I  tried  to  pray 
but  it  didn't  do  any  good.  There  it  was.  Presently 
Bro.  Bunyan  stepped  in  with  his  furnace  in  his  hand  to 
mend  the  ear  of  my  kettle,  which  John  snapped  off 
the  other  day  against  the  jamb.  I  had  just  cleaned  it 
to  heat  some  water  in  to  wash  up  the  plates,  when  he 
jerked  it  up  to  put  it  on  the  crook,  and  knocked  it 
against  the  rocks  !  "What  day  was  it — one  day  last 
week  ?  You  remember  I  sent  John, — 

"  Oh,  Sister  Harrow,  I  can't  remember  now.     Don't 


THE  SHADOW  OX  THE  HEARTH.  45 

talk  to  me  of  it.  I  can't  bear  to  tliiiik  of  such  things 
now,  while  ray  poor  dear  husband  is  in  jail  and  I  am 
left  alone." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Sister  Bunyan.  You  are  not  alone. 
Jesus  will  be  with  you  if  you  will  only  trust  him.  I 
know  he  will.  Go  to  him  with  all  your  griefs — he  will 
bind  up  your  broken  heart.  Xobody  ever  trusted  him 
in  vain.  And  he  is  always  willing,  too.  Often  when 
I  have  felt  such  a  load  here,  it  appeared  to  me  my 
heart  would  burst,  I  have  just  got  down  on  my  knees 
in  prayer,  and  when  I  was  done  it  was  all  gone  ;  Jesus 
had  taken  it,  and  I  was  as  light  as  air." 

"  I  cannot  pray,  Sister  Harrow.  My  words  rise  no 
higher  than  my  head.  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  my 
husband  and  these  poor  helpless  children.  I  cannot 
pray,  I  cannot  pray." 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  give  up  this  way.  Jesus  is  a 
mighty  and  a  willing  Saviour.  He  will  not  forsake  you. 
As  I  was  telling  you,  while  Brother  John  was  mend 
ing  my  kettle  that  day,  he  kept  on  talking  about  trust 
ing  in  the  Lord  and  abiding  in  his  strength,  and  it  made 
me  feel  good  ;  it  lifted  me  up  from  this  poor  earth  to 
hear  his  words,  and  to  feel  here  in  this  heart  that  God 
would  keep  me  safe  from  falling,  let  man  do  what  be 
might.  I  can  rest  in  Jesus,  Sister  Bunyan ;  he  is  my  stay 
and  my  comfort.  Blessed  Jesus,  I  will  trust  thee,  and 
never  fear  if  thou  art  with  me.  Let  the  adversaries  do 
what  they  can,  thou  art  my  portion  forever." 

The  pious  servant  of  God  turned  her  exulting  face 
to  heaven  as  she  pronounced  these  words,  and  a  smile 
of  serenest  trust  lighted  up  her  full  ruddy  face.  She 
had  numbered  fifty  winters,  but  being  endowed  with  a 
hardy  constitution  by  nature,  which  had  been  devel- 


46  MAKY    BUNYAN. 

oped  by  active  exercise,  was  yet  active  and  healthful, 
with  a  flow  of  spirits  which  nothing  but  a  sense  of  sin 
and  sorrow  because  of  the  opposition  her  Saviour's 
cause  met  with  in  every  land,  could  dampen.  She  was 
one  of  God's  faithful  ones ;  for  her  "  light  was  sown  in 
darkness,"  and  to  her  "no  good  thing  was  denied,"  for 
she  "  walked  uprightly."  Whenever  she  met  with 
any  difficulty,  when  disappointment  appeared  to  hedge 
in  her  way,  and  all  her  efforts  proved  unsuccessful,  she 
would  say,  "  I  have  done  all  I  can.  I  will  give  it  up  to 
Jesus  now.  He  will  bring  it  to  pass  in  his  own  good 
time."  And  from  the  moment  she  was  able  to  make 
this  unqualified  surrender  of  her  troubles,  "her  burden, 
which  she  had  been  carrying,  was  all  gone,"  as  she  ex 
pressed  it. 

"  You  must  take  courage,  Sister  Btinyan,  and  keep 
up  your  spirits,  or  you  will  be  sick.  You  look  pale  now  ;" 
and  she  leaned  over  her  and  whispered  some  words 
into  her  ear  which  she  did  not  wish  the  children  to 
hear.  "  This  thing  will  all  be  straight,  and  yoii  may 
live  to  see  the  day  when  you  will  thank  God  for  it ; 
and  if  you  don't,  when  you  get  to  heaven  you  will  then 
understand  it  all.  It  will  then  be  as  clear  to  you  as  the 
shining  sun.  Only  trust  Jesus." 

The  words  of  faith  and  confidence  of  this  truly  de 
voted  child  of  God  fell  like  oil  upon  the  stricken  heart 
of  the  sufferer,  and  she  was  able  to  compose  herself  so 
as  to  talk  about  her  husband's  imprisonment  with  some 
degree  of  calmness. 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  if  he  was  dead,  for  as  long  as 
there  is  life  there  is  hope.  How  long  did  you  say  they 
put  him  in  for  ?" 

"  Till  the  quarter  sessions,  Thomas  says." 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEARTH.  47 

"  Tlien  I  suppose  he  will  be  tried  again,  won't  he,  and 
may  be  they  will  let  him  go  then.  How  long  is  it  till 
the  quarter  sessions,  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  do  not,  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a  long  time. 
They  say  they  are  very  cruel,  and  they  will  keep  him 
in  prison  just  as  long  as  they  can,  I  know." 

"  Let  me  see !"  she  added,  counting  it  upon  her  fin 
gers,  "  I  heard  my  good  man  say  this  morning  that 
the  quarter  sessions  took  place  in  January.  He  and 
Brother  Bunyan  were  talking  about  it,  and  this  is  what 
he  said.  I  remember  it  well.  This  is  the  twelfth  day 
of  the  month,  and  it  will  only  be  seven  weeks  till  then, 
and  may  be  they  will  let  him  go  free.  We  will  all 
pray  to  the  Lord  that  it  may  go  well  with  him." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  long  time  for  him  to  stay  in  that  cold, 
damp  prison.  I  know  it  will  kill  him." 

"  We  must  trust  him  to  Jesus,  Sister  Bunyan  ;  he  will 
take  care  of  him,  and  deliver  him  from  his  enemies  if 
it  be  his  will." 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  then  ?  We  have  but  little  to 
eat,  and  when  this  is  gone  where  shall  we  get  more  ? 
There  is  no  longer  any  one  to  make  bread  for  us ;  we 
must  starve,  there  is  no  hope." 

The  sealed  eye-balls  were  turned  from  the  corner  in 
the  direction  of  the  bed,  and  the  lips  moved  as  if  to 
speak,  but  the  thought  came  to  the  sensitive  heart,  "  She 
can  comfort  her  better  than  I  can." 

"  You  shall  not  want,  Sister  Bunyan,  you  and  your 
little  ones,  as  long  as  I  have  a  morsel ;  and  my  old  man 
will  see  that  you  will  get  all  that  is  owing  to  you. 
Brother  John  spoke  to  him  about  it  this  morning,  and 
I  heard  him  promise  he  would  see  to  it,  and  you  know 
he  is  always  as  good  as  his  word." 


48  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

"  I  know  Brother  Harrow  will  do  all  lie  can,  but 
we  would  be  too  great  a  burden,"  and  as  she  spoke  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  those  of  her  kind  consoler.  They 
expressed  from  their  sorrowing  depths  all  the  fear  and 
hopelessness  that  words  were  too  poor  to  utter.  u  I  will 
not  complain,"  she  added.  "  He  doeth  what  seemeth 
to  him  best." 

"I  brought  you  some  good  oaten  bread  and  some 
meat  in  my  basket  outside  the  door.  I  was  just  bak 
ing  some  for  myself,  and  I  thought  you  would  may  be 
like  a  little.  Things  sometimes  taste  better  when  we 
don't  cook  them  ourselves." 

"  Oh,  that  my  poor  husband  had  it.  He  hasn't  had 
a  mouthful  of  food  to  eat  to-day,  poor  man,  and  I  know 
he  is  hungry  and  faint,  and  they  will  not  give  him  any 


thing.     He  will  starve." 

u  '' 


These  are  perilous  times,  Sister  Bunyan,  and  the 
people  of  God  must  expect  to  bear  afflictions.  These 
are  the  troubles  that  are  to  try  men's  souls,  and  happy 
shall  the  man  be  who  shall  endure  to  the  end.  Did 
you  hear  of  that  poor  man  that  was  thrown  into  jail 
the  other  day  ?  I  didn't  hear  his  name.  They  brought 
him  from  some  other  part  of  the  country,  but  they  say 
it  was  for  preaching  the  gospel.  Oh,  we  are  going  to 
have  dark  and  bloody  times  !  Oh,  that  Jesus  will  give 
us  strength  to  prove  ourselves  good  soldiers,  and  bear 
any  burden  for  his  sake  !" 

"  I  feel  I  could  bear  anything  but  this  ;  if  they  had 
just  left  my  dear  husband  to  me,  I  would  not  murmur ; 
but  to  snatch  him  up,  and  put  him  in  jail,  and  leave  me 
alone  with  these  poor  little  helpless  children.  It  seems 
to  me  I  cannot  stand  it.  It  is  so  hard,  so  hard ;"  and 
the  poor  woman  sobbed  convulsively. 


THE  SHADOW  OX  THE  HEARTH.  49 

"Remember  the  promise,  Sister  Bunyan, '  As  thy  day 
so  shall  thy  strength  be.'  Don't  forget  this.  It  is  a 
most  precious  promise.  Cling  to  it.  Go  to  Jesus  with 
all  your  troubles,  and  he  will  give  you  peace.  Do  not 
be  down-cast ;  our  enemies  will  reproach  us,  and  it  will 
bring  shame  on  our  Saviour's  cause.  'I  will  trust 
him  though  he  slay  me, — that  is  the  confidence,  that  is 
the  faith.  You  must  pray  to  God  to  give  it  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could,  but  how  can  I  ?  You  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  be  placed  in  my  situation. 
Your  husband  has  never  been  torn  from  you  and  cast 
into  a  horrid  prison,  and  you  left  with  four  little  starv 
ing  children." 

"  Come,  my  dear  woman,  do  not  cry  so,  you  will 
make  yourself  sick.  You  hav'nt  had  a  morsel  to  eat 
since  breakfast,  have  you  ?  You  are  weak  and  faint 
for  the  want  of  something.  I  will  call  Mary,  and  let 
her  make  you  a  little  broth,  and  you  can  eat  some  of 
that  bread  I  brought  you." 

She  stepped  to  the  back-door  of  the  kitchen  and 
called  the  child,  but  there  came  no  answer. 

"  I  cannot  make  Mary  hear  me,"  she  said,  as  she 
closed  the  door  after  her,  "  so  I  will  do  it  myself,"  and 
she  hastened  to  make  ready  the  pot  for  the  broth. 

"  The  poor  little  creatures  have  got  into  the  basket 
as  it  stood  outside  the  door.  See,  the  bread  is  almost 
all  gone,  and  the  meat  too." 

The  tears  started  afresh  in  the  mother's  eyes.  "  They 
are  so  hungry,  poor  little  helpless  things." 

"  Bat  they  shall  not  starve.  Your  neighbors  will 
not  let  them  want  for  something  to  eat.  But  Mary  stays 
a  long  while.  I'll  just  step  out  and  call  her,  Sister 


50  MARY   BUNYAN. 

Bunyan.     You  keep  entirely  still  while  I  am  gone.  You 
look  so  pale  and  sick." 

"  Here,  Tommy,  my  son,  leave  off  your  play  a  little 
while,  and  run  towards  the  spring,  and  see  if  your  sis 
ter  Mary's  there,  and  tell  her  to  come  here  directly,  I 
want  to  see  her.  Come  here,  Sarah,  and  stay  with  me, 
while  brother's  gone.  Come  along  and  we  will  go  where 
mother  is,  .  Come,  child,  I'm  waiting  for  you." 

Little  Sarah  left  off  her  play  very  reluctantly,  for  it 
was  not  very  often  that  she  was  so  highly  favored  as 
to  have  Thomas  for  a  playmate. 

"  Run  on,  Sarah,  mother  wants  you,"  and  the  boy 
bounded  over  the  stile  in  the  direction  of  the  spring, 
while  Mrs.  Harrow,  leading  u  Baby  Sarah"  by  the  hand 
hastened  to  Mrs.  Bunyan's  room. 

"  I  can't  find  sister  anywhere,  mother.  I've  called 
her  and  called  her.  She's  not  at  the  spring,  and  I  don't 
know  where  she  is,  unless  she  and  Joseph  have  gone 
over  to  neighbor  Whiteman's.  I  saw  her  with  her  bon 
net  on  a  little  while  ago,  and  Joseph  was  with  her." 

"  And  which  way  did  she  go  ?"  asked  the  sufferer 
feebly. 

"  I  don't  know,  mother.  I  didn't  look  which  way 
she  went.  I  was  playing  with  Sarah,  and  did  not  see, 
and  had  forgot  all  about  it  till  Mrs.  Harrow  called  her." 

"  How  long  since  you  saw  your  sister,  Thomas  ?  She 
would  not  go  to  Neighbor  Whiteman's  without  telling 
me  of  it.  She  must  be  about  the  house  somewhere. 
I'll  get  up  and  call  her  myself." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't,  you  are  too  sick.  She  will  be  in 
directly.  Come,  be  still,  my  good  woman,  you  will 
faint  if  you  leave  this  pillow." 

"  I  am  better  now,  and  would  like  to  set  up  awhile." 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HEARTH.  51 

She  made  the  attempt  to  rise,  fainted  and  fell  back. 
In  the  endeavor  to  restore  her  to  consciousness,  Mary 
was  forgotten  for  the  time.  Let  us  follow  her ! 

Her  mother's  words,  "  And  he  has  had  nothing  to  eat 
to-day,  and  is  now  in  that  cold  damp  prison,"  fell  like 
burning  coals  upon  her  heart.  She  could  not  rest  while 
her  dear  father  was  cold  and  hungry.  Her  resolution 
was  formed,  and  quietly  she  proceeded  to  accomplish 
her  purpose.  It  was  an  easy  task  to  gain  Joseph's  com 
pany.  She  had  but  to  tell  him  she  was  going  to  see 
father.  The  little  fellow  caught  the  idea  in  a  moment, 
and  with  that  sense  of  importance  and  responsibility 
which  a  child  always  feels  when  you  entrust  it  to  a  se 
cret,  and  ask  its  assistance,  he  joined  his  sister  and  the 
two  proceeded  on  their  journey.  Mary  knew  part  of 
the  way,  and  she  could  ask  the  rest.  She  placed  a  bas 
ket  of  provisions  on  her  arm  and  set  out  with,  the 
child  in  the  direction  of  Bedford.  Let  us  follow  her. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MARY    AND    JOSEPH    VISIT    THEIE.   FATHER   IN    PRISON. 

THE  declining  sun  throws  its  rays  more  faintly  over 
the  russet  landscape.  The  air  is  damp  and  chilling. 
Clouds  gather  in  the  heavens  ;  but  the  sealed  eyes  see 
not  the  heauty  around  her,  nor  the  light  airy  forms  of 
the  gathering  clouds  above.  She  unconsciously  feds  it 
all ;  but  there  is  a  deeper  feeling  in  her  bosom  which 
swallows  it  up  and  it  makes  no  impression  on  her  busy 
mind.  The  black-bird  and  the  song-thrush  warble  their 
sweet  notes  amid  the  withering  verdure  of  the  wayside 
hedges,  and  where  in  spring  time  innumerable  insects 
made  the  air  murmurous  with  their  low  ceaseless  hum, 
now  bursts  forth  in  snatches  the  melody  of  the  finch. 
But  naught  of  music  now  arrests  the  quick  ear,  all  un- 
attuned  to  sweet  sounds.  On,  on,  the  little  feet  go,  now 
and  then  pausing  for  a  moment  to  rest  their  weariness. 

"  Is  this  the  way  to  Bedford,  sir  ?"  the  timid  voice 
asks,  while  the  face  is  averted.  It  may  be  some  one 
she  knows,  and  she  would  avoid  discovery. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  road — keep  straight  on  ;"  and  the 
countryman  hurries  by,  and  gives  not  another  thought 
to  the  two  little  ones  who,  for  aught  he  knows  or  cares 
are  homeless  and  without  an  earthly  friend. 

"  Oh,  it's  such  a  long  way  to  where  fttther  is,  Mary  ! 

(52) 


MAKY   AND   JOSEPH.  5i 

Do  you  think  we  will  ever  get  there  ?  I'm  so  tired  ;" 
and  little  Joseph  clasps  more  tightly  his  sister's  delicate 
hand  and  quickens  the  pace  of  his  little  weary  limbs. 

"  We  will  get  there  after  awhile,  Joseph,  and  then 
we  will  see  father.  Won't  you  be  glad  to  see  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  I  will ;  but  I  am  so  tired,  Mary,"  and 
the  little  fellow  stopped  as  if  he  wanted  to  sit  down. 

"There,  sit  down  and  rest  awhile,  we'll  soon  be  there." 

A  horseman  swept  up.  "  Ask  the  man,  Mary,  how 
far  father  is  from  here  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush,  child,  he  may  not  know." 

"  Don't  everybody  know  father,  Mary  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  our  father,  sir  ?"  and  the  boy  looked 
enquiringly  up  into  the  face  of  the  rider,  "  please  tell 
us  how  far  is  he  from  here  ?" 

The  horseman  galloped  on,  and  the  little  fellow  was 
ready  to  cry  as  he  saw  that  his  mighty  effort  had  been 
thrown  away  on  the  unheeding  traveler. 

"  It  cannot  be  far  now,  Joseph,  and  father  will  be  so 
glad  to  see  us.  Come,  jump  up,  and  let's  go  on." 

"  Won't  father  come  home  to  us  any  more,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  They  have  put  him  in  the 
old  dark  prison." 

"  He  can  steal  out  and  come  back,  can't  he  ?  I'm 
going  to  tell  him  to  do  it,  and  we'll  bring  him  home 
with  us." 

"  They  have  locked  him  up  and  he  cannot  get  out. 
The  walls  are  so  thick  and  strong,  and  the  door  is  so 
heavy,  father  can't  get  through.  But  I  hope  they  will 
let  him  out  after  awhile,  and  never  put  him  in  that  ugly 
old  jail  again." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  the  tears  glistened  in  her 


54  MAJIY  BUNYAN. 

darkened  eyes ;  but  she  must  not  cry  ;  for  the  little  fel 
low's  sake  she  must  bear  up. 

On,  on,  hand  in  hand,  the  two  little  wanderers  go — 
weary,  but  not  discouraged.  They  are  going  to  see 
their  father.  This  buoys  up  their  little  hearts,  and 
soothes  the  pains  of  the  aching  limbs. 

The  little  boy  prattles  of  the  houses  and  the  birds 
and  laborers  in  the  fields  by  the  way.  He  dreams  not 
of  danger.  There  is  no  fear  in  that  guileless  heart. 
The  sister  holds  his  hand  in  hers. 

Surely  they  are  almost  there.  She  has  been  once 
or  twice  before,  but  it  was  with  her  father,  and  his 
strong  hand  and  kindly  words  made  the  way  seem  short. 
She  asks  a  footman — 

"  How  far  is  it,  to  Bedford,  sir  ?" 

"It's  just  before  you,  little  girl.  Don't  you  see  it 
yonder  ?" 

"  I  see  it !  I  see  it !  Mary  ;  the  houses  and  the  river, 
and  everything.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  we  are  there.  I'm 
going  to  tell  father  how  tired  I  am,  and  how  mother 
cried  when  brother  came  home,"  and  the  little  fellow 
bounded  away  from  his  sister,  and  ran  on  crying  out, 
"  Come  on,  Mary,  come  on,  I'm  going  to  see  father." 

"  Will  you  please  show  us  the  way  to  the  jail  ?  I 
am  lost,  and  don't  know  where  to  go." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  to  go  to  jail  for,  you  little 
vagabond  ?"  asked  the  fierce  man  grimly. 

"  We  are  going  to  see  father.  Will  you  please  tell 
us  the  way  ?" 

"  You  conld'nt  find  it  if  I  was  to.  Who  is  your 
father  2" 

She  trembled  beneath  the  severity  of  his  tone,  but 


MART    AND   JOSEPH.  OO 

she  drove  back  her  tears  and  replied  as  well   as  she 
could  : 

"  Preacher  Bunyan,  sir  !  They  put  him  in  prison  to 
day  because  he  would  preach  the  gospel." 

"  You  had  better  say  because  he  would'nt  obey  the 
laws  of  the  land,  the  vile  offender.  He  deserves  his 
fate.  But  how  are  you  going  to  find  the  jail?  You 
can't  see  what  you  are  about." 

At  any  other  time  the  sensitive  child  would  have 
been  overcome  by  such  cruel  language,  but  now  she 
felt  that  she  could  endure  anything,  however  hard,  if 
she  could  but  find  her  father. 

"  Come  along  with  me  and  I'll  show  you  where  the 
jail  is,  where  they  put  all  such  rebels  as  your  father, 
come  along,  will  you  ?  I  have  no  time  to  wait." 

Mary  pressed  Joseph's  hand  in  hers,  as  if  to  crave 
protection  and  sympathy,  and  obeyed  the  stranger's 
bidding.  Taking  her  along  that  street,  and  then  turning 
to  the  right,  he  led  her  to  a  point  from  whence  the 
bridge  "  whereon  the  jail  stood"  could  be  seen. 

Halting  suddenly,  and  pointing  with  his  coarse  rough 
hand  towards  the  prison,  he  said : 

"  See  that  bridge  yonder,  and  that  house  on  it  ? 
Well,  that's  the  jail.  Go  there  and  knock  at  the  first 
door  you  come  to,  and  ask  for  the  jailor.  Maybe  he'll 
let  you  in.  Do  you  see,  say  ?" 

"  I  can't  see,  sir,  I'm  blind." 

"I  see  it !  I  see  it !  I'll  show  Mary  the  way,"  said 
Joseph.  "  Come  on,  Mary,  we'll  find  father  now." 

With  quickened  step  they  passed  along  the  street  to 
the  jail !  They  forgot  their  weariness  in  the  joy  they 
felt  at  so  soon  seeing  their  dear  father,  and  being 
clasped  to  his  bosom. 


56  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

"  Where  is  the  door,  Joseph  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  any.  The  man  told  us  wrong,  Mary. 
We  can't  find  father  now,  and  we  will  have  to  go 
back  without  him,"  and  the  poor  little  boy  whose 
heart  had  borne  up  so  nobly  under  the  fatigue  of  the 
great  journey  to  him,  was  about  to  give  up,  and  sit 
down  to  cry,  when  a  man  made  his  appearance  on  the 
bridge  in  front  of  the  jail.  The  children  did  not  hear 
him  until  he  stood  before  them. 

"  What  do  you  want,  children  2  You  poor  little  shiv 
ering  things,  what  are  you  doing  here  this  cold  day  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  we  want  to  go  in  the  prison  to 
see  Preacher  Bunyan,"  replied  Mary,  almost  overcome 
by  the  remembrance  of  the  vulgar  man  whom  she  had 
last  spoken  to.  1 

"  He  is  our  father,  sir,  and  we  have  coir.e  all  the  way 
from  home  to  bring  him  something  to  eat.  Mother 
said  he  was  so  hungry,  and  there  was  no  one  to  give 
him  any  bread,  and  we  have  brought  him  some  Please, 
sir,  let  us  see  him,"  and  she  turned  upon  him  her  ray- 
less  eyes,  all  eloquent  with  entreaty. 

"  You  can't  go  into  the  prison.  It  is  against  the  rules." 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,  let  us  see  father,"  and  the 
tears  ran  down  the  implorin  g  cheeks. 

"  We  won't  take  him  away  with  us,  let  me  and  Mary 
see  him.  We  want  to  give  him  this  bread  we  have 
brought  all  the  way  for  his  supper." 

"  I  cannot  break  the  rules.  You  cannot  go  into  the 
prison." 

"  Oh,  can't  we  see  father,  sir?"  and  the  child  no  lon 
ger  able  to  contain  herself,  burst  into  loud  sobs.  "  Just, 
if  you  please,  let  him  come  out  that  we  may  speak  to 


MARY   AND   JOSEPH.  57 

him,  and  we  will  go  away  and  not  trouble  you  any 
more.     Please,  sir,  let  him  come." 

The  jailor's  heart  was  touched. 

"  You  may  talk  to  him,  but  you  cannot  go  where  he 
is ;"  and  unlocking  the  huge  front  door,  he  admitted 
them  into  the  court-yard,  where  he  left  them  standing, 
while  he  went  within. 

He  unlocked  the  prisoner's  cell. 

"  Two  little  children  want  to  see  you  in  the  court 
yard,  one  of  them  a  little  blind  girl.  You  can  come 
out  and  see  them  for  a  minute." 

"  Their  mother  has  sent  them,  bless  the  dear  wo 
man,"  and  he  arose  from  his  seat  and  followed  the  jailor 
to  the  grated  door. 

"  You  can  come  no  farther  now.  You  may  talk  to 
them  through  the  grate."  So  saying  he  passed  into 
the  court  and  locked  the  door  after  him. 

Banyan's  great  heart  was  melted.  He  who  had 
stood  before  the  judges  and  received  the  sentence  of 
imprisonment  without  dismay,  but  rather  with  "  bless 
ing  the  Lord,"  and  had  gone  to  the  gloomy  cell  with 
God's  comfort  in  his  soul,  now  wept  as  his  eye  rested 
on  the  shivering  forms  of  his  half-clothed  children,  and 
he  realized  that  their  love  for  him  had  nerved  their  lit 
tle  timid  hearts  to  brave  the  dangers  of  an  unknown 
way  to  spare  him  the  pangs  of  hunger. 

Oh,  how  he  longed  to  press  them  to  his  heart,  and 
kiss  their  cold  pinched  cheeks,  but  iron  grates  inter 
vene,  and  he  must  be  content  with  words. 

Joseph  sees  his  father,  and  stretches  up  his  little 
hands  to  reach  him,  and  Mary  puts  forth  hers.  They 
strike  against  the  cold  dull  iron.  Shudderingly  she  with 
draws  them,  while  an  expression  of  horror  passes  over 


58  MARY   BUNYAN. 

her  raised  face.  The  father  sees  it  and  sighs — not  for 
himself,  no  ;  he  can  endure  all  things  for  his  Master's 
sake — but  for  the  effect  upon  the  guiltless  heart  of  his 
innocent  child. 

"  God  bless  you,  mj  poor  little  ones.  I  cannot  reach 
you,"  he  said  as  soon  as  he  could  find  utterance.  "You 
have  had  a  long  weary  way  of  it  to  find  me.  Did  your 
mother  send  you  ?" 

"  No,  father,  mother's  sick,"  answered  little  Joseph 
quietly.  "We  come  to  bring  you  some  supper.  Here 
it  is."  And  he  lifted  Mary's  covering,  and  took  from 
her  the  roll  of  bread  and  meat,  and  handed  it  to  his 
father. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  little  boy.  I  cannot  take  it. 
The  man  will  give  it  to  me  when  he  comes.  So  your 
mother's  sick,  my  daughter  ?" 

"  She  took  it  so  hard  when  Thomas  told  her  of  you 
father,  that  she  had  to  go  to  bed." 

"  My  poor  wife,"  sighs  Bunyan.  "  The  Lord  keep 
her  from  danger.  Did  you  leave  her  by  herself,  my 
child  8" 

"  No,  father,  Aunt  Harrow  was  with  her.  She  made 
mother  go  to  bed  and  she  tried  to  comfort  her." 

"  Father,  won't  you  go  home  with  us  to  see  mother  ? 
She's  so  sick." 

"  I  cannot  go,  my  little  Joseph.  I  cannot  get  through 
these  great  iron  bars." 

"  "Won't  the  man  unlock  the  door,  father  and  let  you 
go  home  to  see  mother  ?  Oh,  you  don't  know  how 
sick  she  is." 

"  No,  my  boy,  you  must  take  care  of  your  mother. 
I  can't  come  now." 

"  When  will  you  go  home,  father  ?"  and   the   tears 


MART   AND   JOSEPH.  59 

rolled  down  from  the  clear  blue  eyes  as  he  felt  that  his 
father  could  not  go. 

"  When  they  let  me  out  of  this  dark  prison,  then  I'll 
come  home  to  see  you  all." 

"  Can't  I  stay  with  you,  father  ?"  and  the  little  fellow 
put  up  his  hands  beseechingly. 

"  No,  Joseph,  you  must  go  home  with  Mary.  "Who 
would  take  care  of  her?" 

"  These  children  must  leave  and  you  must  go  back 
to  your  cell,"  said  the  jailor,  gruffly,  appearing  in  the 
narrow  court. 

A  word  of  farewell  and  blessing,  and  the  little  ones 
are  driven  through  the  door  to  find  their  way  home 
alone  and  unprotected,  a  distance  of  more  than  three 
miles,  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  a  November  eve 
ning. 

The  Omnipotent  Eye  watches  every  step  of  the  weary 
way  ;  the  Omnipotent  Hand  protects  them  from  every 
danger. 

Bunyan  trusts  as  seeing  "  Him  who  is  invisible,"  and 
goes  back  to  his  cell  to  pray. 


CHAPTER  IV, 

THE      SHADOW      DEEPENS. 

"  The  blast  swept  by,  and  on  its  wing 
Death's  pale  dread  form  was  borne 
The  mother  bowed  low — sorrowing — 
For  a  robe  of  darkness  did  he  fling 
About  that  infant  form." 

THERE  is  a  coffin  there  !     Tread  softly ! 

The  Angel  of  Death  has  swept  his  dark  wing  over 
the  tinker's  dwelling,  and  put  out  the  little  life  of  the 
new-born  babe.'  And  the  mother  takes  up  the  voice 
of  lamentation  and  weeping  over  the  loss  of  her  first 
born.  Ah,  'tis  a  dark — dark  hour !  "When  will  the 
light  comei 

The  little  one  opened  its  eyes  on  the  cold  friendless 
world,  shut  them,  and  went  home.  The  bud  of  para 
dise  could  not  unfold  in  the  gloomy,  chill  atmosphere 
of  grief ;  so  the  Father,  kindly  transplanted  it  to  his 
own  garden,  to  bloom  perennially. 

He  chasteneth,  but  in  love.  And  the  gleamings 
from  his  radiant  throne,  lighting  up  the  darkest  way, 
bid  us  press  on,  not  fainting,  nor  weary. 

Shroud  the  little  form — fold  the  tiny   hands   gently 

over  the  pure  still  bosom  ; — close  the  pale,  cold  lips  ; 

— seal   the  unwaking  eyes  !     They  shall  never  again 

need   the  light  of  the  sun,  nor  of  the  moon  ;  nor  yet 

(60) 


THE    SHADOW   DEEPENS.  61 

of  the  pale,  solemn  stars.  For  they  shall  drink  in  the 
light  of  the  Lamb  eternally. 

Shut  out  the  sunlight !  Let  not  its  garishness  fall 
on  the  grave  stamped  features  !  It  would  but  mock 
with  its  glorious  smile  the  heart  broken  mother. 
Rather  let  the  twilight  softness  enshroud  the  painful 
scene  !  Hush  every  noise  !  No  harmony  now  hath 
the  stricken  heart  with  earthly  voices.  How  gratingly 
the  faintest  echo  falls  upon  the  grief-attuned  ear. 

'Tis  a  bitter  cup  the  mother  is  drinking  now  !  Will 
it  ever  pass  from  her  ?  Were  the  father  but  at  home, 
it  would  be  some  slight  solace.  But  he  is  in  the  dark, 
drear  prison,  and  his  voice  of  love  and  sympathy  can 
not  reach  her.  His  eyes  shall  never  gaze  on  the  form 
of  his  child,  nor  his  lips  kiss  its  pale,  cold  cheek. 
"  Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes," — many  a  day  will  the 
little  one  slumber  on  in  the  graveyard  before  its  father's 
face  shall  again  light  up  the  darkened  dwelling.  Why, 
oh  why,  is  the  hand  of  chastening  laid  so  heavily  upon 
her  ?  Hath  the  Father  forgotten  to  be  gracious  ?  He 
seeth  it  is  best ;  His  covenant  remaineth  unbroken  ; 
His  hand  holdeth  the  rod,  but  the  eye  of  faith  cannot 
see  it ;  the  clouds  are  so  thick  and  dark. 

The  children  gather  around  in  childish  wonder,  their 
young  hearts  touched  by  the  sight  of  their  mother's 
distress.  Death,  even  to  their  untutored  minds,  is  a 
dread  dark  mystery — an  awful  presence,  which  they 
fear,  yet  cannot  understand.  The  poor  blind  one  can 
not  see  it,  but  Q(\Q feels  it  in  the  clayey  coldness  of  the 
tiny  hand,  the  touch  of  the  icy  cheek,  the  dread  still 
ness  of  the  breathless  air.  She  hears  it  in  the  low  deep 
sob  of  the  mother's  bursting  heart,  as  she  learns  from 
the  tremulous  lips  of  Neighbor  Harrow  that  her  child 


62  MARY   BUNYAN. 

is  gone,  and  the  despairing  moans  ever  rising  from 
that  mother's  throobmg  bosom,  pierce  like  barbed  ar 
rows  her  sympathetic  soul.  She  strives  with  Neighbor 
Harrow  to  soothe  her  mother's  bursting  heart  ;  but 
she  feels  that  every  effort  is  vain,  yea,  more  than  vain  ; 
and  she  goes  away  alone  in  the  little  back  kitchen  to 
pray.  She  is  not  yet  herself  a  child  of  God,  but  she 
has  heard  her  father  talk  so  much  about  the  efficacy  of 
prayer  that  she  thinks  she  will  try  it  now.  She  has 
many  a  time  prayed  in  secret  ;  for  young  as  she  is,  the 
spirit  has  been  failing  about  her  heart  ;  but  now  she 
implores — ah,  so  earnestly, — that  God  would  comfort 
her  mother  and  send  her  father  home. 

"With  many  little  acts  of  kindness,  and  with  words  of 
heavenly  truth,  "  Goody  Harrow,"  as  she  was  famil 
iarly  called  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
neighborhood,  endeavored  to  console  and  cheer  the 
desponding  woman.  She  had  stayed  with  her  through 
the  night  to  administer  to  her  wants  and  provide  for 
her  such  comforts  as  the  exigency  of  the  case  demanded. 

"  Try  to  be  calm,  Sister  Bunyan ;  try  to  cheer  up. 
The  little  creature  is  gone,  but  it  is  taken  from  the 
evil  to  come.  No  pain  and  sorrow  for  it  now.  It  is 
in  the  Saviour's  bosom.  It  is  all  God's  doing,  and  it  is 
all  for  the  best.  His  ways  are  past  finding  out,  they 
look  very  dark  and  mysterious  ;  and  so  they  are  !  But 
he  never  forgets  his  children  ;  He  never  cast  away  his 
people  ;  no,  no,  he  is  too  good  for  that.  He  will  hear 
their  cries,  and  in  his  own  good  time  He  will  deliver 
them.  Many  a  time  in  my  life  I've  been  so  cast  down 
with  trouble  I  did'nt  know  which  way  to  look.  My 
heart  was  so  full  I  could'nt  do  anything.  It  appeared 
like  there  was  a  great  load  here,  dragging  me  down  to 


THE    SHADOW    DEEPENS.  63 

the  very  earth,  and  I've  tried  to  read,  and  to  think,  and 
to  pray,  but  it  would  all  do  no  good.  Then  I  would 
think  God  had  cast  me  off,  and  I  was  no  child  of  his. 
And  I  would  think  this  thing  and  that  ;  and  at  last 
after  I  had  tried  everything  else,  I  have  had  to  come  to 
Jesus  and  say,  '  Here  I  am,  my  blessed  Saviour,  a  poor, 
weak,  sinful,  blind  creature  ;  do  wdth  me  what  thou 
seest  is  best.  Take  from  me  this  great  trouble  if  it  is 
thy  will ;  but  if  I  must  bear  it,  only  give  me  thy  grace. 
I  want  thy  will  to  be  done,  not  mine.'  And  I  tell  you 
Sister  Bunyan,  just  as  soon  as  I  would  do  this, — just  as 
soon  as  I  could  come  to  Jesus  and  look  to  him,  my  bur 
den  would  all  be  gone,  and  I  could  praise  his  holy 
name.  My  heart  would  be  as  light  as  a  feather ;  no 
more  trouble,  no  more  sorrow.  All  was  joy  and  peace. 
Jesus  is  good,  Sister  Bunyan.  He  is  kind  ;  trust  him. 
Jesus,  Master,  thou  art  good  and  kind  to  thy  children. 
Many  a  time  has  this  poor  heart  felt  it,"  and  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  her  bosom  to  witness  the  truth  of  what 
she  had  just  uttered,  and  turned  her  eyes  reverently 
upwards.  "  Trust  him,  Sister  Bunyan,  trust  him  ;  He 
will  give  you  peace." 

"I  know  I  ought  to  trust  him,  Sister  Harrow,  and 
1  do  trust  him  some.  He  is  all  the  hope  I  have.  But 
I  am  so  encompassed  with  sorrow  that  I  know  not  which 
way  to  turn.  If  my  dear  husband  was  here  I  think  I 
could  bear  this  better.  But  it  breaks  my  heart  to  think 
the  little  one  must  be  buried,  and  he  shall  never  see  it. 
If  he  could  just  look  on  its  little  face  once,  it  would  do 
me  so  much  good ;  it  would  not  be  so  awful  as  it  it  now. 
Poor  little  thing,  it  has  no  father,  and" 

"Do  not  cry  so,  Sister  Bunyan.  It  wants  no  earthly 
father,  and  it  has  gone  to  its  heavenly  one,  who  can  do 


64  MARY   BUNYAN. 

everything  for  it.  Don't  cry  so,  my  good  woman,  you 
will  kill  yourself,  and  it  will  do  no  good.  God  has 
promised  to  be  a  husband  to  the  widow,  and  a  father 
to  the  fatherless,  and  can't  you  trust  him  for  his  prom 
ises  ?  "What  did  Job  say  in  all  his  distresses  ? — '  I  will 
trust  him  though  he  slay  me.'  Try  to  feel  like  Job. 
Try  to  get  nearer  to  the  Cross,  then  you  will  be  com 
forted  ;  then  all  your  sorrows  will  be  gone." 

"  Pray  for  me,  Sister  Harrow,  I  cannot  pray  for  my 
self.  God  it  seems,  will  not  hear  my  prayer.  Oh,  ask 
him  to  remember  me  in  all  my  afflictions,  and  bind  up 
my  broken  heart,  if  it  is  his  will." 

The  dear  old  disciple  of  Christ  knelt  by  the  bedside 
of  the  sick  woman,  and  in  agony  and  tears  made  sup 
plication  that  she  might  be  made  submissive  to  the  will 
of  God  ;  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  praise  him  in 
the  midst  of  her  afflictions.  With  streaming  eyes  and 
quivering  lip  she  asked  God  to  bless  his  servant,  who 
was  willing  to  testify  to  his  name,  even  with  his  life ; 
to  strengthen  and  console  him  in  the  dreary  prison,  and 
to  give  him  grace  to  bear  all  manner  of  shame  and 
reproach  for  his  truth's  sake. 

God  does  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  earnest  beseech- 
ings  of  faith.  He  hears  even  before  his  children  ask  ; 
and  he  is  ever  ready  to  bestow  every  good  and  needed 
gift. 

The  Comforter  came  in  his  sweet  invisible  agency  to 
the  tried  heart  to  impart  peace  to  it,  even  while  the 
words  of  supplication  were  ascending  from  the  faithful, 
earnest  soul  of  this  poor,  untaught  follower  of  the 
Saviour — untaught  in  the  wisdom  of  the  world,  but 
truly  learned  in  the  school  of  Christ. 

As  she  arose  from  her  knees,  her  face  still  streaming 


THE    SHADOW    DEEPENS.  65 

with  tears,  yet  lighted  up  with  the  beams  of  iuuer 
glory,  one,  to  have  seen  her,  would  have  said,  "  truly, 
she  hath  peace  and  joy  in  believing."  Like  Moses, 
after  he  had  been  upon  the  Mount,  her  face  shone  with 
unearthly  lustre.  She  had  been  with  Christ. 

Thomas  was  dispatched  for  good  man  Harrow,  to 
give  assistance  in  the  duties  before  them. 

"  Send  the  children  to  their  father,  that  he  may  know 
my  sad  bereavement,"  besought  the  mother. 

"  Oli,  it  will  distress  him  so,  Sister  Bunyau,  and  do 
no  good.  And  he  has  as  much  to  bear  now  as  he  can 
get  along  with." 

"  But  we  can  send  him  something  to  eat.  I  know 
they  will  let  him  starve,  for  they  have  no  pity  on  pris 
oners.  Let  them  take  him  some  bread — but — "  and 
she  heaved  a  heavy  sigh — u  there  is  but  little  bread  in 
the  house,  and  nothing  to  buy  more — God  have  mercy," 
she  exclaimed,  while  a  piercing  groan  escaped  her. 

"  '  Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing  i  and 
one  of  them  shall  not  fall  to  the  ground  without  your 
Father's  notice.'  This  is  what  our  Master  himself  says, 
Sister  Bunyan  ;  and  he  tells  us  not  to  fear,  for  we  are 
of  more  worth  than  many  sparrows.  But  we  are  such 
poor,  short-sighted  worms  of  the  dust,  we  cannot  see 
one  step  ahead  of  us ;  and  we  are  so  unbelieving,  that 
we  won't  trust  unless  we  can  see.  It's  a  wonder  God 
don't  cut  us  off  for  our  unbelief.  But  thanks  be  to  his 
great  and  glorious  name,  '  he  is  long  suffering  and  full 
of  mercy.'  Can't  you  trust  him,  Sister  Bunyan  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  can  say  I  trust  him  some  ;  I  wish  I  could 
trust  him  more.  I  know  he  will  do  what  is  right,  but 
it  is  very  hard  to  be  afflicted  as  I  am.  I  cannot  see 
my  way  through  it," 


66  MARY  BUNYAN. 

u  It  was  just  so  with  the  children  of  Israel  when  they 
got  to  the  Red  Sea  ;  they  couldn't  see  how  they  were 
to  get  across,  but  God  brought  them  through.  And 
when  they  were  in  the  wilderness,  don't  you  remem 
ber  how  he  gave  them  bread  and  water,  and  delivered 
them  from  their  enemies  ?  He  makes  all  the  crooked 
paths  straight.  All  these  things  are  given  to  us  for  our 
instruction.  "We  ought  to  heed  them  all,  Sister  Bunyan. 
I  remember  last  Spring,  when  George  got  his  foot  hurt 
so  bad  by  jumping  off  that  old  back  porch  at  his 
grandfather's.  I  thought  what  a  dreadfnl  thing  it  was 
that  he  should  hurt  himself  just  at  the  very  time  that 
Elizabeth  was  going  to  be  married,  because  we  wanted 
to  have  some  of  the  neighbors  in;  but  you  see; 
when n 

"But  the  passing  of  the  children  of  Israel  through 
the  Sea,  and  their  being  fed  in  the  wilderness,  were 
miracles,  Sister  Harrow,  and  we  can't  look  for  any  such 
help  now.  If  God  should  work  a  miracle,  how  easy  it 
would  be  for  me  to  believe  ;  but  when  everything 
seems  to  strive  against  me — my  husband  in  prison,  and 
my  poor  little  one  lying  there  ready  for  the  grave — 
how  can  I  see  any  light ;  how  can  any  good  be  in  store 
for  me  ?  Ah !  no,  there  can't  come  anything  out  of 
this  but  trouble  and  sorrow." 

"  "Well,  shall  we  receive  good  at  his  hand  and  not 
evil  ?  But  what  has  he  promised,  Sister  Bunyan  ? 
Don't  he  say  that  all  things  shall  work  together  for  our 
good  ?  Think  of  this.  He  don't  say  some  things,  or 
most  things,  but  all  things.  And  if  we  are  his  children 
we  will  believe  what  he  says ;  we  will  not  doubt  his 
word  ;  we  cannot.  Look  how  he  brought  poor  old  Job 
through  all  his  afflictions,  and  made  his  last  days 


THE   SHADOW   DEEPENS.  67 

his  best  ones.  Your  troubles  are  not  equal  to  bis ;  be  bad 
everything  taken  from  him — bouses,  lands,  children, 
camels,  and  all  his  servants — and  you  know  he  had  a 
good  many,  for  be  was  a  rich  man.  And  then  he  was 
afflicted  in  his  own  body — all  covered  with  boils — the 
sorest  things  in  the  world.  I  remember  I  had  one  last 
Spring  on  my  hand,  just  here  in  this  very  place  ;  see,  it 
has  left  its  mark,  and  it  like  to  have  run  me  crazy.  I 
could'nt  do  any  work  for  a  whole  week.  How  often  I 
thought  of  poor  old  Job,  and  wondered  how  he  lived 
with  them  all  over  him,  from  head  to  foot.  Just  think 
of  him  in  all  his  distresses,  and  how  God  brought  him 
through  them  all.  And  then  you  will  be  willing  to 
trust  him  for  yourself.  He  was  given  to  us  as  an  ex 
ample  to  follow." 

"But  Job  was  an  upright  man,  Sister  Harrow,  and 
I'm  a  poor,  weak,  sinful  creature.  I  don't  deserve  any- 
good  at  God's  hands.  I  am  so  prone  to  forget  him.  I 
don't  love  him  as  I  ought  to.  I  don't  serve  him  as  I 
should.  He  ought  to  scourge  me,  I  am  so  wicked." 

"  Ah,  Sister  Bunyan  you  don't  think  any  body 
deserves  any  good  thing  from  God,  do  you  ?  Oh  no  ; 
it  is  not  for  our  good  works  that  he  loves  us  ;  it  is  all 
his  own  sovereign  love  and  mercy.  Oh  I  tell  you  we 
have  nothing  to  commend  us  to  his  favor,  as  your  dear 
good  man  said  the  last  time  he  spoke  at  my  house  ;  and 
we  can't  do  any  thing.  So  much  sin — so  much  sin 
always  here  in  the  heart — that  God  can't  find  any  thing 
in  us  to  love  us  for.  It  is  only  for  Jesus's  sake — only 
because  he  died.  There's  our  hope,  Sister  Bunyan — 
no  where  else — no,  no,  nowhere  else.  Jesus  is  all,  all, 
Sister  Bunyan.  No  merit  but  his.  Yes,  blessed  Jesus ! 
thou  art  all,  and  in  all ;  the  beginning  and  the  end  ; 


68  MAKT   BUNYAX. 

I  feel  it  here  in  this  poor  heart,  which  every  day  bears 
its  load  of  sin,  but  it  loves  thee,  thou  blessed  Master," 
and  she  looked  upwards,  while  her  hand  pressed  her 
bosom,  as  if  beseeching  God  to  witness  \vhat  she  had 
said.  "  But  you  must  keep  quiet  now,  Sister  Bunyan, 
or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.  Think  of  these  things 
and  try  to  trust  in  God.  He  will  take  care  of  you  ; 
rest  assured  he  never  forgets  his  children." 

"  I  long  for  unshaken  truth  in  the  promises,  Sister 
Harrow,  but  my  faith  is  so  weak." 

"  Let  the  children  go  to  their  father, — Mary  and 
Joseph.  He  must  know  this  thing.  Maybe  thev  will 
let  him  come  home  to  see,  me.  Would  to  God  they 
would.  But  if  they  don't,  I  will  feel  better  satisfied 
for  him  to  know  it  all.  Send  them  here  to  me,  and  I 
will  tell  them  what  to  say." 

"  I'll  look  after  that,  Sister  Bunyan.  Calm  yourself 
to  sleep  now.  Rest  will  do  you  good — you  need  it. 
Leave  everything  to  me.  I'll  see  that  all  goes  straight. 
There,  get  to  sleep.  I  can't  let  anybody  come  in  to 
disturb  you  now." 

"  Let  them  tell  their  father  I  am  better.  It  will  be 
a  sore  distress  to  him  to  know  it  all.  God  give  him 
strength  to  bear  it,  poor  man.  Don't  forget  the  food — • 
the  food,  Sister  Harrow.  He  must  be  almost  starved." 

"  Be  still  now,  be  still,  while  I  make  Joseph  ready 
to  go.  Here,  Mary,  give  your  mother  this  warm  tea. 
It  will  strengthen  her  and  make  her  sleep  better  ;"  and 
the  kind  old  woman  lifting  her  heart  in  prayer  to  God 
for  his  presence  amid  the  dark  scene,  went  to  find  the 
two  younger  children  who  had  quietly  stolen  away  from 
the  chamber  of  sorrow  and  death  to  pursue  their  merry 


THE   SHADOW   DEEPENS.  69 

play,  where  the  shadow  could  not  fling  its  dark  folds 
over  their  innocent  hearts. 

Is  not  the  midnight  of  sorrow  enshrouding  the  tin 
ker's  humble  dwelling  ?  Ah,  and  throughout  the  land 
from  how  many  other  hearth-stones,  by  the  decree  of 
wickedness  in  high  places,  is  going  up  to  heaven  the 
cry  to  stay  the  tyrant's  hand  ?  The  children  of  dark 
ness  are  exalted  on  high  for  a  season,  and  they  drink, 
with  insatiate  thirst,  the  blood  of  the  saints.  Hellish 
cruelty  stalks  unimpeded  through  the  land,  revealing 
through  its  tattered  garments  of  false  religion,  its  own 
hideous  deformity  ;  and  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left 
— in  God's  sanctuary,  and  among  his  chosen  ones  by 
their  own  peaceful  firesides,  with  reeking  hand,  it  deals 
death  and  imprisonment  until  from  thousands  of 
anguished  hearts,  in  cell,  and  cave,  and  mountain 
height,  there  goes  up  one  long,  loud,  piercing  cry, 
"  How  long,  oh  Lord,  how  long !" 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE     CHILDREN     VISIT     THEIR     FATHER. 

EIGHT  days  have  passed  since  the  massive  prison-door 
clanked  heavily,  as  it  shut  in  from  the  world  the  man 
who  courted  the  hard  cold  pillow  of  a  felon's  cell,  and 
the  fetid  breath  of  the  narrow  court-yard  with  its  hun 
dred  occupants,  rather  than  give  up  the  preaching  of 
the  glorious  gospel  of  the  Son  of  God.  Courageous 
man!  Sublime  martyr  1  Thou  hast  acquitted  thyself 
like  a  man,  yea,  rather  like  a  saint  of  the  eternal  God. 
Thy  reward  is  on  high.  The  cross  here,  the  immortal 
crown  hereafter. 

At  the  mother's  earnest  solicitations  the  children 
were  made  ready  to  visit  their  father.  A  basket  was 
prepared  and  filled  with  everything  edible  the  house 
afforded,  and  the  children  set  out  for  Bedford.  Their 
little  hearts  were  full  of  gratitude  and  joy,  poor  little 
innocent  creatures,  that  they  were  permitted  to  carry 
their  father  this  simple  token  of  love; they  forgot  that 
their  breakfast  was  but  a  scant  supply  of  cold  oaten 
mush  and  dry  bread  in  their  great  happiness  at  being 
able  to  take  their  father  something  nice  and  palatable. 

"  Father  will -be  so  glad  to  see  us,  won't  he,  Mary  !" 
and  Joseph's  face  brightened  up  \vith  the  great  joy  it 
(70) 


THE   CHILDREN   VISIT  THEIR   FATHER.  71 

would  be  to  him  to  see  his  father  once  more,  even  if 
it  was  within  the  dark  prison  he  so  much  dreaded. 

Could  the  poor  blind  eyes  but  have  seen  his  bright 
buoyant  expression,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  hers,  it 
would  have  chased  away  some  shade  of  sorrow  from 
the  sad  face,  and  some  portion  of  pain  from  the  throb- 
^  bing  heart.  The  dark  gloom  of  the  picture  he  had  left 
behind  had  faded  from  his  mind  like  the  midnight 
darkness  before  the  rising  sun. 

Children  dwell  not  on  sad  remembrances  !  and  well 
it  is  for  them  they  do  not.  Did  they  with  their  incip 
ient  judgment  to  decide  on  every  case,  treasure  up  their 
ills,  real  and  imaginary,  how  miserable  their  little  lives 
would  be. 

"Where  are  you  going,  children  ?"  asked  Neighbor 
Lawrence  of  them  as  he  passed  them  on  the  highway. 

"  We  are  going  to  Bedford  to  the  jail  to  take  this 
dinner  to  our  father,  and  to  tell  him  our  mother  is  sick," 
answered  Mary,  in  a  sweet  timid  voice. 

"  And  how  is  your  mother,  Mary  ?" 

"  She  says  she  is  better  now." 

"  Has  she  been  much  sick,  child  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir  ;  she  has  been  very  sick  ever  since  they 
put  father  in  prison." 

"  And  the  baby's  dead,"  added  little  Joseph,  while 
the  tears  rush  to  his  large  blue  eyes.  -•*• 

Instantly  the  truth  flashed  through  the  mind  of  kind 
Neighbor  Lawrence,  and,  bidding  the  little  ones  good 
morning,  he  hastened  home  to  tell  his  wife  the  sad 
story,  that  she  might  go  to  the  aid  of  the  poor  suffer 
ing  woman. ' 

"  Father  will  be-so  sorry  to  hear  mother  is  sick.  But 
she  is  better  now,  ain't  she,  Mary  ?" 


72  MARY   BUNYAN. 

*'  Yes  Joseph,  Goody  Harrow  said  so,  and  told  us  to 
tell  father  so." 

"  Do  you  think  mother  will  die,  Mary,  like  the 
baby  ?"  he  asked  in  a  tremulous  voice,  and  his  fresh 
chubby  face  wore  a  sorrowing  look  as  the  dark  sad 
scene  rose  up  before  his  young  mind.  The  darkened 
room,  so  hushed,  so  still — the  pale  wan  look  of  the 
mother — the  sober  face  of  Goody  Harrow,  and  the  si 
lent  tears  following  each  other  very  fast  down  the  calm 
quiet  face  of  his  poor  blind  sister — and,  above  all,  the 
little  clay-cold  form,  shrouded  in  white,  lying  on  the 
settee  in  the  corner  of  the  room— recollections  of  all 
this  filled  his  childish  heart  with  wonder  and  mysteri 
ous  awe. 

"  Is  mother  going  to  die,  Mary  ?"  he  asked  a  second 
time. 

"  I  hope  not,  Joseph.     Mother  is  better  now." 

"  Yes,  Goody  Harrow  said  so ;  but  Mary,  if  she 
should  die  like  the  baby,  then  we  would  have  no  father 
nor  mother." 

"  But  we  would  have  a  heavenly  father,  Joseph,  who 
would  care  for  us,  and  give  us  our  daily  bread.  Don't 
you  know  father  always  tells  us  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  but  God  is  always  up  in  heaven,  and 
maybe  he'll  forget  little  children  like  us." 

"  No,  no,  Joseph,  he  will  never  forget  us  if  we  love 
him  and  pray  to  him  as  he  tells  us.  Don't  you  re 
member  father  read  to  us  the  last  Sunday  evening  be 
fore  he  was  put  in  prison,  that  God  never  forgets  his 
promises  to  his  children,  and  then  he  has  said  he  will 
give  them  each  day  their  daily  bread." 

"But  heaven  is  so  far  from  here,  Mary,  and  there 
are  so  many  people  in  the  world  God  might  not  think 


THE   CHILDREN    VISIT   THEIR   FATHER.  73 

about  us  little  children  one  day,  and  then  what  would 
we  do  ?" 

"  God  is  not  so  far  off,  Joseph.  He  is  here  with  us, 
and  hears  all  you  say  about  hii^.  He  knows  every 
thing  we  do  ;  and  he  will  take  care  of  us  if  we  are  his 
children." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  God,  Mary.     Don't  you  ?" 

"  You  will  see  him  when  you  die  if  you  go  to  heaven. 
Father  says  we  will  all  see  him  then." 

"  Will  you  see  him,  Mary,  like  me  and  father  ?" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  rolled  slowly 
down  her  face  as  she  answered  in  a  subdued  tone — 

"  If  I  get  to  heaven,  Joseph,  I  will.  Father  says  I 
shall  see  him  for  myself,  and  not  another  for  me." 

He  bent  his  head  thoughtfully.  He  was  busy  en 
deavoring  to  look  into  the  mysteries  of  what  he  had 
just  heard.  Questionings  were  awakened  in  his  young 
mind,  which  only  the  ages  of  eternity  can  answer  to 
any  of  us. 

"  Are  you  tired,  Joseph  ?"  asked  Mary,  seeing  that 
he  lagged  somewhat  behind  her. 

"  I  am  not  much  tired,  but  my  feet  are  sore ;"  and 
the  little  fellow  stooped  down  to  pick  the  stones  from 
his  worn  out  shoes. 

"  Come,  let  us  hurry  on  with  father's  dinner.  He  is 
hungry,  I  expect." 

"  And  don't  they  give  father  anything  to  eat  ? — the 
people  at  the  jail." 

"  Yes,  they  give  him  coarse,  rough  vituals ;  and  father 
can't  eat  much.  He  will  be  so  glad  to  get  something 
from  home." 

"  Will  we  have  to  bring  his  dinner  to  him  every  day. 
Mary  ?  I  can  carry  the  basket." 


74:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

"  Oh  no,  Joseph,  I  reckon  not.  We  may  not  have 
any  for  ourselves." 

"  Why,  didn't  you  say  God  would  give  us  our  bread 
every  day  ?"  . 

"  Yes,  he  will,  Joseph,  if  we  love  him  and  trust  him. 
But  come,  hurry  on,  I  think  we  will  soon  be  there." 

"  Tender's  the  bridge,  Mary,  and  the  jail  too — I  see 
them  both,"  he  exclaimed,  as  they  gained  the  emi 
nence  that  overlooked  Bedford,  and  the  "  lilied  Ouse.'1 
"  We'll  soon  be  there,"  and  he  grasped  more  firmly  his 
side  of  the  little  basket,  and  quickened  his  pace  almost 
to  a  run. 

Could  the  tyrant  king,  as  he  sat  on  his  throne  of 
blood,  but  have  seen  those  two  little  faithful  children 
— Bunyan's  blind  Mary,  and  Joseph,  her  brother — 
braving  everything  because  of  their  love  to  their 
father,  would  not  his  obdurate  heart  have  softened  ? 
Would  he  not  have  released  the  holy  prisoner,  even  for 
his  children's  sake  ?  And  this  is  but  one  instance  of 
thousands  where  his  hand  of  death  has  made  the  wives 
and  children  of  the  servants  of  God  widows  and  orph 
ans,  with  broken,  bursting  hearts,  and  sad  forsaken 
homesteads.  And  will  not  God  avenge  the  death  of 
his  elect — his  chosen  ones,  which  crieth  unto  him  day 
and  night,  from  the  scaffold,  the  dungeon,  and  the 
flame? 

"  What  are  you  children  doing  here  ?"  said  the  gruff 
assistant  jailer  to  Mary  and  Joseph,  as  they  presented 
themselves  in  front  of  the  prison  door. 

He  was  a  man  naturally  of  a  fierce,  hard  heart,  and 
the  prayer  which  had  just  reached  his  ear  from  the 
prisoner's  cell,  as  he  passed  by,  had  stirred  up  all  the 
brutality  of  his  nature.  "The  canting  deceiver,"  he 


THE    CHILDREN    VISIT    THEIK   FATHER.  75 

exclaimed  to  himself,  "  he'd  better  let  praying  alone 
and  go  back  to  his  family." 

The  blind  child  let  go  her  hold  on  the  basket,  and, 
turning  fearfully  in  the  direction  of  the  harsh  voice, 
said — "We  want  to  see  our  father,  sir.  We  have 
brought  him  a  little  food  in  our  basket  for  his  dinner." 

"  Your  father  gets  enough  to  eat  here.  We  don't 
want  any  children  in  the  jail,  so  get  you  back  home 
with  your  basket,  and  don't  trouble  me  any  more,"  and 
he  waved  them  off  with  his  rough  sinewy  hand. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  ventured  Mary,  stooping  in 
pleading  dread  before  him,  "  let  us  see  our  father.  Our 
mother  is  sick  at  home,  and " 

"  Be  gone,  girl,  I  tell  you  be  gone !  both  of  you. 
You  couldn-'t  see  your  father  if  he  was  before  you, 
with  your  blind  eyes.  Go  home  this  minute,  I  have  no 
time  to  be  bothered  with  children." 

Joseph,  who  had  been  standing  behind  Mary,  hold 
ing  her  bonnet  in  one  hand,  while  the  basket  rested  on 
the  other  arm,  stepped  to  her  side,  and,  looking  into 
the  dark  angry  face  of  the  man,  spoke — 

"  Please,  sir,  let  Mary  and  me  go  in  !  Mother  is  so 
sick  at  home,  and  we  want  to  tell  father  about  it. 
And  the  baby's  dead,  too,  and  father  don't  know  it. 
Please,  sir,  let  us  go  in  to  see  our  father ;  we  won't 
take  him  away  with  us,  and  we  wont  stay  long,  either." 

"  And  who  is  your  father  ?" 

"  Mister  Bunyan,  the  poor  man  they  put  in  here  be 
cause  he  would  preach  the  gospel,"  answered  the 
trembling  child. 

"Yes,  the  vile  ranter,  and  it's  the  place  for  him.  I 
just  this  minute  heard  one  of  his  devilish  prayers." 

Mary  felt  like  sinking  beneath  those  hard,    wicked 


76  MAKT   BTOTYAN. 

words,  but  she  knew  it  was  no  time  for  weakness  and 
tears,  so  she  commanded  herself  as  well  as  she  could, 
and,  turning  her  sightless  eyes  up  to  his  face  with  a 
look  of  pleading  earnestness,  and,  reaching  out  her 
Lands  in  a  supplicating  manner,  she  said,  with  all  the 
eloquence  of  her  bursting  soul : 

"  Oh,  please,  sir,  let  us  in  a  little  while.  "We  want 
to  see  our  father  and  tell  him  our  mother  is  sick,"— 

"  And  the  baby  is  dead,  too,  and  father  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  and  we  want  to  tell  him.  Goody  Har 
row  said  we  must.  Oh  do  let  us  in  now,  sir,"  inter 
fered  Joseph  eagerly. 

"  Be  gone  from  here,  I  tell  you,  you  vagabonds. 
"What  do  I  care  for  your  sick  mother  and  dead  baby," 
and  he  clenched  his  left  hand  and  assumed  a  most 
threatening  attitude. 

The  poor  blind  child  could  see  nothing  of  this,  but 
trembled  as  she  heard  the  clanking  keys  at  the  jailer's 
side,  and  his  harsh  voice  of  denial  tilled  her  with  dread. 
Joseph  clung  to  his  sister,  overcome  by  fear. 

"  Can't  we  see  our  father,  sir?"  said  Mary  in  broken 
accents,  making  one  more  effort  to  succeed  in  her  un 
dertaking.' 

The  request  seemed  to  enrage  the  jailer.  He  placed 
his  broad  hand  on  her  slender  arm,  and  turning  her 
round,  bade  her  begone,  and  not  come  back  to  trouble 
him  again. 

"With  streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  the  chil 
dren  turned  from  the  door.  As  they  were  passing  the 
bridge,  they  met  the  principal  jailer,  who,  recognizing 
them,  asked,  "  What,  here  again  to  see  your  father  ?" 
Mary  remembered  the  voice,  and  a  ray  of  hope  darted 
through  her  bosom.  Turning  h  er  streaming  face  to  his 


THE   CHILDREN   VISIT   THEIR    FATHER.  4  I 

she  answered,  "  Yes,  sir,  we  have  brought  father  some 
dinner  in  our  basket,  but  the  man  with  the  keys  would 
not  let  us  in." 

"  He  drove  us  away,  and  said  we  should  not  see 
father,"  added  little  Joseph,  stepping  up  to  the  man, 
whose  pleasant  countenance  reassured  him. 

"  Well,  give  your  basket  to  me,  and  I  will  take  it  to 
your  father ;  he  is  Buuyan,  the  preacher,  ain't  he  ? 
Here,  child,  give  me  your  basket." 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,  let  us  see  our  father,"  inter 
rupted  Mary,  beseechingly  ;  "  mother  is  sick,  and  we 
want  to  tell  him  about  it." 

"  And  the  baby  is  dead,  too,  sir,  and  father  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  Please,  sir,  let  Mary  and 
me  see  father  a  little  while." 

It  would  have  required  a  harder  heart  than  the  jailer 
possessed  to  refuse  the  sad,  sorrowful  entreaty  of  the 
weeping  blind  girl,  and  the  simple,  earnest  appeal  of 
little  Joseph.  So,  telling  them  to  follow  him,  he  led 
the  way  to  the  prison  door,  and,  unlocking  it,  conduc 
ted  them  to  Bunyan's  cell. 

The  prayer  was  finished  that  had  fallen  on  the  ears 
of  the  cruel-hearted  turnkey,  and  Bunyan  was  sitting 
meditatively  by  his  narrow,  grated  window,  that  over 
looked  the  "  lilied  Ouse,"  whose  clear  bright  waters 
rippled  gently  round  the  piers  of  the  old  bridge,  and 
then  floated  peacefully  on  toward  the  sea,  reflecting  in 
golden  light  from  their  crimpled  bosom  the  November 
noon-day  sun.  He  started  as  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock.  His  nerves  were  unstrung  by  his  entire  relaxa 
tion  from  labor  and  the  noisome  humidity  of  his  nar 
row  cell,  which  was  always  damp  enough  to  make 
"  moss  grow  upon  the  eyebrows"  of  the  prisoners,  built 


78  MARY  BT7NYAN. 

as  it  was  on  one  of  the  piers  of  the  bridge,  and  over 
hanging  the  river  ;  and  he  who  quailed  not  for  a  mo 
ment  before  iron-hearted  judges,  nor  shrank  from  the 
dungeon's  gloomy  walls,  "  often  started,  as  it  were,  at 
nothing  else  than  his  own  shadow." 

The  children  entered.  He  recognized  them  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  cell,  and  catching  them  in  his  arms, 
pressed  them  to  his  bosom.  His  thoughts  had  been  of 
his  family,  of  his  wife  and  little  ones,  and  now  his 
great  heart  melted  with  a  father's  love,  and  tears  of 
mingled  thankfulness  and  sorrow  coursed  down  his 
manly  cheek. 

The  jailer  was  moved  by  the  touching  scene.  From 
that  day  until  Bunyan's  release,  he  regarded  him  with 
a  degree  of  consideration  and  respect  above  any  other 
prisoner. 

How  powerful  is  the  influence  of  holy  love  !  The 
jailer  felt  it,  and  retired. 

And  now  the  father  is  left  alone  with  his  children. 
He  seats  himself,  and  gathering  them  about  his  knees, 
he  asks  them  of  their  mother,  and  Thomas,  and  Sarah. 
In  her  own  sweet,  simple  way,  Mary  tells  him  all  that 
has  transpired.  The  tears  fall  faster ;  his  bosom  heaves, 
and  a  deep  groan  swells  up  from  his  tried  soul.  The 
clouds  of  sorrow  dim  the  eye  of  faith  for  the  time,  and 
even  Bunyan  feels  that  the  Lord  has  cast  him  off  for 
ever.  But  the  darkness  lasts  but  for  a  moment.  It  is 
the  passage  of  the  desires  of  the  carnal  heart  over  the 
ever-shining  Sun  of  Righteousness,  which  eclipses  his 
rays  for  a  season.  But  the  transit  is  made  !  And  there 
are  the  glorious  life-giving  beams  to  penetrate  every 
recess  of  his  soul,  imparting  life,  and  warmth,  and  joy, 
and  he  feels  that,  as  the  sufferings  of  Christ  abound  in 


THE   CHILDREN   VISIT   THEIR   FATHER.  79 

him,  so  his  consolation  also  abounds  in  Christ.  He  re 
members  that  He,  on  whom  he  trusted,  hath  said, 
"  Leave  thy  fatherless  children,  I  will  preserve  them 
alive,  and  let  thy  widow  trust  in  me ;"  and  again, 
"  The  Lord  said,  verily,  it  shall  go  well  with  thy  rem 
nant  ;  verily,  I  will  cause  the  enemy  to  entreat  them 
well  in  the  time  of  evil,  and  in  the  time  of  affliction." 

Trust  on,  thou  brave,  noble  heart !  Faint  not,  though 
the  cross  burden  thee  to  the  earth.  God  notes  thy 
patience  and  "  labor  of  love."  The  mansion  and  the 
crown  await  thee.  Look  up,  and  press  on  ! 

The  time  is  rapidly  passing.  The  basket  is  emptied 
of  its  contents.  The  children  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow. 
The  holy  man  hears  it  with  a  bursting  heart.  Mes 
sages  of  sympathy  and  love  are  delivered  them  for 
their  mother,  and  words  of  affectionate  advice  and  en 
couragement  are  spoken  to  themselves.  A  hand  is 
laid  on  each  head,  and  a  prayer  sent  up  to  God  for 
their  protection  and  guidance. 

Fifteen  minutes  have  passed.  The  jailer  enters.  The 
children  must  leave  their  father's  tender  caresses  and 
words  of  love.  Longer  stay  is  impossible.  The  pris 
oner  is  a  black  oifender,  and  but  little  favor  must  be 
shown  him.  He  kisses  their  tearful  faces,  and  com 
mends  them  again  to  God.  The  jailer  takes  them  by 
the  hand,  leads  them  out,  and  locks  the  door. 

The  prisoner  is  alone  with  his  God  and  his  heavy 
anguish. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BUNYAN    IN    PRISON. 


"  Take  all,  great  God  1  I  will  no 

But  still  will  wish  that  I  had  still  to  give." 

Narris  of  Bemertan, 

THUS  exclaimed  Bunyan,  as  the  dark  cloud,  which 
enveloped  him  in  his  prison  "  with  beams  of  light  from 
the  inner  glory,  was  stricken  through." 

But  the  resplendence  of  the  "  inner  glory"  did  not 
always  shine  upon  him  ;  the  dark  cloud  would  often 
times  shut  it  out,  and  he  was  again  left  in  the  black 
night  of  disappointment  and  despair.  His  was  a  che 
quered  experience  —  alternate  hope  and  fear,  joy  and 
sorrow  ;  now  a  look  by  faith  into  the  glories  of  the 
heavenly  Jerusalem,  and  then  the  fearful  groping  in 
the  thick  darkness  of  doubt  and  dread.  The  Arch 
Fiend,  who  of  old  would  have  him  believe  he  had  sold 
his  Saviour,  and  thus  caused  him  to  fall,  "  as  a  bird 
i  that  is  shot  from  the  top  of  a  tree,  into  great  guilt  and 
despair,"  would  now  bring  before  his  racked  mind  all 
the  horrors  and  distress  of  death,  and  tell  him  this 
should  be  his  fate,  and  paint  to  him  in  the  most 
frightful  colors  the  gloom  and  distress  of  his  suffering 
family. 

What,  but  the  grace  of  God,  and  that  abundantly 

'-80) 


BUNYAN   IN   PKISON.  81 

bestowed,  can  keep  even  his  strong  heart  from  bursting 
amid  such  trials  ?  Poor  man !  he  is  reaping  the 
earthly  reward  of  following  Jesus!  But  though  he  is 
encompassed  by  infirmities,  and  the  way  is  very  dark 
and  rough,  he  must  not  give  up.  It  is  just  as  the 
Master  had  told  him,  "  In  this  world  ye  shall  have 
tribulation."  Ah,  it  is  fearful  journeying';  but  all 
along  the  path  he  can  here  and  there  discern  the  foot 
marks  of  the  Captain  of  his  salvation,  and  hear  the 
cheering  words  ring  out,  "  Be  ye  faithful  unto  death 
and  I  will  give  you  a  crown  of  immortal  life." 

Earthly  hope  he  has  none.  For  the  merciless  tyrant, 
restored  to  the  throne  of  his  forefathers,  with  an  energy 
and  zeal  worthy  a  noble  cause,  and  a  fiendish  hate 
which  beggars  words  to  portray,  is  meting  out,  with 
unsparing  hand  death  and  destruction  to  all  Non-con 
formists.  His  fierce,  dark  will  is  inexorable.  Hia 
victims  may  starve  to  death  in  their  loathsome  cells, 
or  shriek  in  unpitied  anguish  from  the  horrid  rack,  or 
hang  soddening  in  the  summer's  sun  from  the  roadside 
gibbets,  the  scorn  and  jeer  of  his  pleasure-besotted 
minions — and  what  cares  lie  ?  His  voluptuous  court 
moves  on,  and  revelry  and  music  shut  out  the  long 
loud  wails  of  the  perishing  ones,  down-trodden  by  the 
iron  heel  of  relentless  hate.  Wickedness  sits  on  high, 
and  the  earth  mourns.  Will  not  the  Lord  arise  in  his 
anger  and  awake  unto  judgment,  that  the  just  may 
be  established  and  the  righteous  be  relieved  from  the 
net  of  the  fowler  ? 

Weeks  have  passed  since  Bunyan  has  received  any 
intelligence  from  his  helplesi^  family.  The  children 
have  come  with  their  little  basket  of  provision,  but  the 
assistant  jailer  was  hard-hearted,  and  would  not  let 


82  MAKT   BUNYAN. 

them  in,  but  drove  them  from  the  door  with  jibes  and 
bitter  taunts.  Their  entreaties  were  in  vain.  Their 
pleading  words  and  looks  served  only  to  exasperate 
his  brutal  nature,  and  with  the  big  tears  of  disappoint 
ment  rolling  down  their  tender  cheeks,  they  turned 
away  with  broken  hearts  to  tell  their  sad  tale  to  their 
mother. 

It  is  a  cold  winter's  evening  in  January.  Bunyan, 
through  the  livelong  day,  has  been  sitting  by  his  little 
grated  window  over-looking  the  dull,  leaden  clouds,  as 
slowly  they  marched  their  dark  battalions  through  the 
murky  sky.  lie  has  been  busy  with  his  own  thoughts, 
for  to-morrow  he  is  to  stand  before  his  judges.  The 
evening  draws  to  a  close.  Availing  himself  of  the 
privilege  of  the  prison  regulations,  he  leaves  his  cell 
and  walks  into  the  narrow  court-yard  in  front  of  the 
jail.  He  finds  his  health  giving  away  beneath  the 
continued  confinement  and  wearing  suspense,  so  that 
at  times  he  starts  at  his  own  shadow.  Dark,  fearful 
thoughts  are  revolving  through  his  mind,  and  a 
pensiveness  shades  his  face  such  as  he  is  not  wont  to 
wear.  The  apprehension  of  coming  evil  is  visible 
in  his  agitated  features,  and  he  bears  himself  as  one 
weighed  down  by  heavy  care.  He  is  under  the  cloud. 

Entering,  from  the  inner  prison  the  court -yard, 
w^hich  was  scarce  fourteen  feet  square,  he  observes, 
pacing  to  and  fro  with  a  slow,  irregular  step,  a  man  of 
middle  age,  with  sad  worn  countenance,  and  arms 
folded  in  the  hopelessness  of  despair.  His  once  dark 
hair  is  now  quite  gray.  Sorrow  and  anxiety,  more 
than  years,  have  done  this  work.  As  he  approaches- 
Bunyan  regards  him  with  steadfast  look.  There  is 
(something  in  his  appearance  attractive,  which  bespeaks 


BUNYAN   IN   PRISON.  83 

him  above  the  common  felon.  Bunyan  thinks  he  may 
be  a  prisoner  for  conscience's  sake. 

As  the  man  reaches  him,  lie  looks  up.  Their  eyes 
meet.  Sorrow  is  keen-sighted,  and  readily  under 
stands.  They  read  in  a  moment  their  mutual  suffering 
in  the  same  great  cause. 

Bunyan  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was  not  a  man 
for  ceremony  or  mincing  words. 

"  A  sufferer  for  conscience's  sake,"  he  says,  looking 
at  the  bowed  form  and  sorrowful  face  before  him. 

"  For  preaching  the  gospel  of  our  blessed  Re 
deemer,"  is  the  answer. 

"  And  I  am  here  for  the  same,"  he  replies,  "  but  I 
thank  God  that  he  has  given  me  grace  to  suffer  for  his 
name." 

"  John  Bunyan,  of  Elstow  ?"  replies  the  prisoner, 
interrogatively. 

"  The  same." 

"  And  I  am  Dorset,  of  Newburg." 

The  two  seat  themselves  on  some  stones  which 
project  from  the  foundation  wall  of  the  jail  and  enter 
into  conversation. 

"  Ah,  these  are  dark  times  for  the  servants  of  the 
Most  High.  They  are  smitten  from  the  rising  to  the 
going  down  of  the  sun,  and  there  is  no  uplifted  arm  to 
stay  the  hand  of  these  bloody  Amalakites,"  opens 
Dorset,  despondently. 

"  But  the  Lord  hath  sworn  to  preserve  his  people, 
and  in  his  own  good  time  he  will  bring  them  deliver 
ance.  Let  us  wait  on  him,  for  hath  he  not  sworn  that 
he  will  utterly  put  out  the  remembrance  of  Amalek 
from  under  heaven  ?  Let  us  be  strong,  and  of  a  good 
courage,  for  the.  Lord  himself  will  be  with  us ;  he  will 


84:  MART    BUNYAN. 

never  fail  nor  forsake.  And  his  people  shall  yet  ride 
in  the  high  places  of  the  earth,  and  eat  of  the  increase 
of  the  fields." 

i.'  All,  but  he  hath  hidden  his  face  from  them,  and 
Lath  forsaken  them,  and  they  are  devoured  from  off 
the  lace  of  the  earth,  because  his  anger  is  kindled 
against  them,"  responds  Dorset. 

"  Do  not  vengeance  and  recompense  belong  to  him  ? 
And  the  Lord  himself  will  judge  his  people,  and  repent 
himself  for  his  servants  when  he  seeth  that  their  favor 
is  gone,"  answers  the  holy  man  of  God. 

"But  the  blood  of  his  slaughtered  people  crieth 
daily  unto  him  from  the  ground,  but  the  heavens  are 
as  brass,  and  they  walk  like  blind  men,  and  their  blood 
is  poured  out  like  dust  and  there  is  no  healing  of  their 
grievous  wounds."  and  Dorset  of  Xewburg  shook  his 
head  seriously. 

"  But  he  will  avenge  the  blood  of  his  servants,  and 
will  render  vengeance  to  his  adversaries,  and  will  be 
mindful  unto  his  land  and  unto  his  people ;  and  he 
will  bring  them  out  of  the  places  where  they  have 
been  scattered,  the  cells,  and  the  dungeons,  and  the 
caves ;  and  will  lead  them  in  green  pastures,  and 
upon  high  mountains,  and  will  bind  up  that  which  was 
broken,  and  strengthen  that  which  was  faint.  And 
they  shall  no  more  be  a  prey  of  the  violent  man., 
neither  shall  the  wicked  devour  them  ;  but  they  shall 
dwell  in  safely,  and  none  shall  make  them  afraid,  for 
the  Lord  God  hath  spoken  it." 

How  eloquent  with  trust  was  the  face  of  Bunyan  as 
he  repeated  these  praises  of  his  God  ! 

"  The  promises  of  God  are  true  and  mighty,  I  know, 
Bro.  Bunyan,  but  my  way  seems  so  hedged  in.  My 


BUNYAJST    IN    PRISON.  85 

wife  and  children  are  left  desolate,  and  to-morrow  I 
am  to  be  tried,  and  if  I  do  not  recant,  death,  or  impris 
onment,  perhaps  for  life,  will  be  my  lot.  Why  is  it 
that  the  people  of  God  are  thus  scattered  and  peeled — • 
meted  out  and  trodden  down  ?" 

"  God  is  trying  the  faith  of  his  people,  my  brother, 
even  his  own  elect,  but  in  due  time  he  will  succor  and 
save  them.  "We  should  let  none  of  these  things  move 
us,  but  always  be  ready,  not  only  to  be  bound,  but 
also  to  suffer  death,  if  need  be,  for  the  furtherance  of 
the  glorious  gospel  of  the  Son  of  God." 

"  Hard,  hard !"  said  the  prisoner,  sighing  deeply, 
and  fixing*  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  Unless  God 
gives  me  grace,  I  -do  not  see  how  I  am  to  live  in  this 
miserable,  loathsome  confinement,  if  this  should  be 
my  doom." 

"And  his  grace  will  be  vouchsafed  to  you,  my 
brother,  if  you  have  built  on  the  sure  word  of  promise. 
Mighty  and  willing  is  he  to  do  all  for  his  chosen  ones 
that  he  has  said.  I  never  had  in  all  my  life  so  great 
an  inlet  into  the  word  of  God  as  now.  Those  scrip 
tures,  that  I  saw  nothing  in  before,  are  made  in  this 
p  ace  and  state  to  shine  upon  me.  Jesus  Christ,  also, 
was  never  more  real  and  apparent  than  now  ;  here  I 
have  seen  and  felt  him  indeed.  .  Oh,  that  word  ! — '  We 
have  not  preached  unto  you  cunningly  deviled  fables  ;' 
and  that  other,  '  God  raised  Christ  from  the  dead,  and 
gave  him  glory,  that  our  faith  and  hope  might  be  in 
God,'  are  blessed  words  unto  me  in  this  my  imprisoned 
condition." 

"  I  pray  that  he  may  stand  by  nfe  and  uphold  me,  if 
it  is  his  will  to  send  me  to  this  horrid  place."  A 
shudder  passed  over  the  frame  of  the  man,  as  if  the 


Ot>  MART   BUNTAN. 

thought  of  the  darkness  and  dreariness  of  the  prison 
house  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

"  Feed  upon  his  word,  my  brother,  look  to  him,  and 
you  need  not  fear.  His  words  are  sweet  and  precious. 
These  three  or  four  scriptures  have  been  great  refresh 
ments  to  me  in  my  sad  condition,  and  they  may  be  so 
to  you  if  you  will  but  lay  hold  of  them  by  faith.  '  Let 
not  your  heart  be  troubled  ;  ye  believe  in  God,  believe 
also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions ; 
if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  pre 
pare  a  place  for  you.  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place 
for  you,  I  will  come  again  and  receive  you  to  myself, 
that  where  I  am  ye  may  be  also.  These  things  I  have 
spoken  unto  you,  that  in  me  ye  might  have  peace.  In 
the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation,  but  be  of  good 
cheer,  I  have  overcome  the  world.  For  ye  are  dead, 
and  your  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God  ;  when  Christ, 
who  is  our  life,  shall  appear,  then  shall  ye  also  appear 
with  him  in  glory.  But  ye  are  come  to  Mount  Zion, 
and  unto  the  city  of  the  living  God — the  heavenly 
Jerusalem — and  to  an  innumerable  company  of  angels 
— to  the  general  assembly  and  churches  of  the  first 
born  which  are  written  in  heaven,  and  to  God,  the 
Judge  of  all;  and  to  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  per 
fect  ;  and  to  the  blood  of  sprinkling,  that  speaketh 
better  things  than  that  of  Abel.'  Sometimes  when  I 
have  been  able  to  enjoy  the  savor  of  these  precious 
words,  I  have  been  able  to  '  laugh  at  destruction,'  and 
to  fear  neither  the  horse  nor  his  rider.  I  have  had 
sweet  sights  of  the  forgiveness  of  my  sins  in  this  place, 
and  of  my  being  with  Jesus  in  another  world.  Oh  ! 
the  Mount  Zion,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  the  innumer 
able  company  of  angels,  and  God,  the  Judge  of  all,  and 


BTJNTAN   IN   PRISON.  87 

the  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect,  and  Jesus  have 
been  sweet  unto  me  in  this  place.  I  have  seen  that 
here,  that  I  am  persuaded  I  shall  never,  while  in  this 
world,  be  able  to  express.  I  have  seen  a  truth  in  this 
scripture,  '  Whom  having  not  seen,  ye  love,'  in  whom, 
though  now  you  see  him  not,  yet  believing,  ye  rejoice 
with  joy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory." 

"  Hath  Satan  never  tempted  you  to  doubt  and  fear, 
my  brother  ?"  and  as  the  man  questioned,  he  looked 
into  Banyan's  face  with  surprise  and  wonder  at  his 
words. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  have  not  escaped  the  assaults  of  the 
Wicked  One;  but  I  never  knew  what  it  was  for  God 
to  stand  by  me  at  all  times,  and  at  every  offer  of  Satan 
to  afflict  me,  as  I  have  found  him  since  I  came  hither  ; 
for  whenever  fears  have  presented  themselves,  so  have 
supports  and  encouragements ;  yea,  when  I  have 
started,  even,  as  it  were,  at  nothing  else  but  my  shadow, 
yet  God,  as  being  very  tender  of  me,  hath  not  suffered 
me  to  be  molested,  but  would,  with  one  scripture  or 
another,  strengthen  me  against  all,  insomuch  that  I 
have  often  said,  '  Were  it  lawful,  I  could  pray  for 
greater  trouble,  for  the  greater  comfort's  sake.' ': 

"  Has  the  Lord  always  thus  been  unto  you  a  tower 
of  salvation — a  shield  and  rock  of  defence,  so  that  the 
darts  of  the  adversary  have  been  turned  aside  from 
thee,  my  brother  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  Fear  has  been  upon  me,  and  trembling, 
which  made  all  my  bones  to  shake.  Before  I  came  to 
prison  I  saw  what  was  coming,  and  had  especially  two 
considerations  warm  upon  my  heart.  The  first  was, 
'  How  to  be  able  to  encounter  death,  should  that  be 
here  my  portion.'  For  the  first  of  these,  that  scripture 


88  MAET   BUNYAN. 

was  of  great  information  to  me,  namely :  to  pray  to 
God  '  to  be  strengthened  with  all  might  according  to 
his  glorious  power  unto  all  patience  and  long  suffering 
with  joyfulness.'  I  could  seldom  go  to  prayer  before 
I  was  imprisoned  for  not  so  little  as  a  year  together, 
but  this  sentence  or  sweet  petition  would,  as  it  were, 
thrust  itself  into  my  mind,  and  persuade  me,  that  if 
ever  I  would  go  through  long  suffering,  I  must  have 
patience,  especially  if  I  would  endure  it  joyfully.  And 
this,  also,  was  of  great  use  to  me  when  I  thought  of 
having  to  die  here  in  this  jail — '  But  we  had  the  sen 
tence  of  death  in  ourselves,  that  we  might  not  trust  in 
ourselves,  but  in  God  that  raiseth  the  dead.'  By  this 
scripture  I  was  made  to  see,  that,  if  ever  I  would  suffer 
rightly  I  must  first  pass  a  sentence  of  death  upon 
everything  that  can  properly  be  called  a  thing  of  this 
life,  even  -to  reckon  myself,  my  wife,  my  children,  my 
health,  my  enjoyments,  and  all  as  dead  to  me,  and 
myself  as  dead  to  them  " 

The  listener  moaned.  The  fear  of  pain  and  death 
was  heavily  upon  him.  If  Bunyan,  whose  courage  and 
fortitude  at  his  trial  had  been,  as  it  were,  the  watch 
word  of  all  the  persecuted  throughout  Bedfordshire 
and  the  neighboring  counties,  stirring  them  up  to 
steadfastness  and  zeal  in  the  great  cause  of  man's 
redemption,— if  he  had  been  so  overtaken  by  the 
Tempter,  and  sore  broken  by  his  malignant  assaults, 
how  should  he  stand  when  the  conflict  was  fierce  .upon 
him — when  wicked  men  should  make  haste  to  shed  his 
blood  ? 

"  My  soul  is  among  lions.  And  I  lie  even  among 
them  that  are  set  on  fire,  even  the  sons  of  men,  whose 
teeth  are  spears  and  arrows,  and  their  tongues  a  sharp 


BUNYAN   IN   PRISON.  89 

sword,"  he  repeats  slowly  to  himself,  as  his  eyes  rest 
on  the  ground. 

"But  God  shall  send  from  heaven  and  save  his 
people  from  the  reproach  of  them  that  would  swallow 
them  up.  He  will  not  suffer  the  righteous  to  be  moved, 
but  will  redeem  their  soul  from  violence  and  deceit, 
and  will  deliver  them  from  the  hand  of  their  enemies. 
I  find,  my  brother,  the  best  way  to  go  through  suffer 
ing  is  to  trust  in  God,  through  Christ,  as  touching  the 
world  to  come ;  and  as  touching  this  world,  '  to  count 
the  grave  my  home,  to  make  my  bed  in  darkness ;  to 
say  to  corruption,  Thou  art  my  father ;  and  to  the 
worm,  Thou  art  my  mother  and  sister.' ': 

A  shudder  passes  through  the  frame  of  the  prisoner 
as  this  dark  picture  falls  from  the  lips  of  the  speaker. 
He  has  not  fully  learned  to  trust  the  Lord,  though  he 
slay  him. 

The  turnkey  comes  to  order  the  prisoners  to  their 
cells.  One  goes  away  with  the  light  of  God  burning 
in  his  soul,  the  other  is  treading  a  path  in  which  there 
is  no  light. 

But  scarcely  is  Bunyan  alone  in  his  cell  before  the 
Tempter  comes,  and  he  who  but  a  few  minutes  before  was 
strong  in  the  Lord  and  in  the  power  of  his  might,  finds 
himself  now  encompassed  with  fears  and  dark  fore 
bodings,  "  so  that  he  was  like  a  broken  vessel,  driven 
and  tossed  on  wild,  tumultuous  seas." 

It  was  when  Job  was  hedged  about,  himself  and  his 
house,  when  the  Lord  had  blessed  the  work  of  his 
hands,  and  his  substance  was  increased  in  the  land, 
that  Satan  put  forth  his  hand  and  touched  all  that  he 
had.  It  was  just  after  Peter  had  eaten  bread  with  his 
Lord  that  he  heard  these  fearful  words,  "  Simon,  Simon, 


90  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

behold  Satan  hath  desired  to  have  you,  that  he  may 
sift  you  as  wheat."  And  thus  oftentimes  it  is  when 
the  Christian  is  on  the  NVbo  of  his  hopes,  that  he  is 
commanded  by  the  Arch  Fiend  to  come  down  and  die 
to  all  present  enjoyment  and  future  bliss. 

Bunyan  rests  on  his  stool  beside  the  little  window, 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  The  flowing  river, 
and  leaden  cloud,  and  sweeping  winds  without,  have 
no  attraction  or  interest  for  him  now.  His  thoughts 
are  turned  painfully  within.  The  morrow  is  his  trial 
day,  and  death  may  await  him.  His  family  will  be 
left  without  a  protector  or  supporter.  Who  will  stand 
by  them  in  their  need  ?  It  is  a  maddening  thought. 
He  starts  from  his  seat  and  paces  his  narrow  cell  in 
agony.  Poor  man  !  the  Tempter  is  hard  upon  him. 
The  rending  thoughts  of  his  bosom  form  themselves 
into  words,  as  back  and  forth  he  goes  in  almost  fren 
zied  desperation  ;  "  Oh  !  the  parting  with  my  wife 
and  children  is  as  the  pulling  of  the  flesh  from  my 
bones.  What  hardships,  and  miseries,  and  wants,  my 
poor  family  are  likely  to  meet  with,  if  I  am  taken 
from  them ;  especially  my  poor  Hind  child,  who  is 
nearer  to  my  heart  than  all  beside.  Oh !  the  hard 
ships  this  poor  blind  one  will  have  to  undergo  will 
break  my  heart  to  pieces  !" 

And  then,  as  if  the  blind  eyes  were  turned  upward 
to  his,  with  their  dark  imploring  gentleness,  and  he 
felt  the  resting  of  the  thin,  frail  hand  in  his,  he  ex 
claims,  "  Poor  child  !  what  sorrow  thou  art  like  to  have 
for  thy  portion  in  this  world.  Thou  must  be  beaten, 
must  beg,  suffer  hunger,  cold,  nakedness,  and  a  thou 
sand  calamities,  though  I  cannot  now  endure  the  wind 


BUNYAN   IN  PRISON.  91 

should  blow  upon  tliee.  But  I  must  venture  you  with 
God,  though  it  goeth  to  the  quick  to  leave  you." 

He  wipes  away  the  big  tears  rolling  from  his  earnest 
eyes. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  as  a  man  who  is  pulling  down  his  house 
upon  the  head  of  his  wife  and  children,"  and  he  stops 
suddenly,  as  if  overcome  by  the  horror  of  the  thought. 
"  But  I  must  do  it — I  MUST  do  it,"  he  exclaims  with  en 
ergy,  as  he  again  dashes  forward. 

"  I  will  give  you  back  to  your  family,"  whispers  Sa 
tan — "  to  your  wife  and  helpless  children  ;  you  shall 
be  free,  and  have  long  life  and  comfort,  if  you  will  but 
promise.  You  have  but  to  say  that  you  will  call  these 
meetings  no  more  together,  and  you  are  at  liberty. 
And  surely  there  can  be  no  harm  in  this.  Can't  you 
d"o  this  without  compromising  the  truth  ?  It  is  an  easy 
matter  to  let  this  alone.  For  the  sake  of  your  wife 
and  children  you  can  submit  to  the  law  this  much. 
And  think  what  will  be  the  end  in  this  matter  if  you 
don't.  Your  name  will  be  cast  out  as  a  reproach,  and 
your  wife  and  children  will  be  left  to  die.  You  surely 
are  not  foolish  enough  to  do  this." 

"  Oh  !  I  must  do  it — I  must  do  it.  No  compromise 
for  me.  I  must  bear  torturing,  if  need  be,  unto  death. 
God  tells  me,  '  Leave  thy  fatherless  children,  I  will 
preserve  them  alive  ;  and  let  thy  widow  trust  in  me  ;' 
and  again,  '  Verily,  it  shall  go  well  with  thy  remnant ; 
verily,  I  will  cause  the  enemy  to  treat  them  well  in 
the  time  of  evil,  and  in  the  time  of  affliction.'  " 

"  But  how  do  you  know  this  is  required  at  your 
hands  ?  and  how  do  you  know  God  will  fulfill  these 
promises  to  you  ?"  suggests  Satan. 

"  If  I  venture  all  for  God,"  he  answers  to   himself, 


92  MARY   BUNYAST. 

"  I  engage  God  to  take  care  of  my  concernments.  But 
if  I  forsake  him  in  his  ways  for  fear  of  any  trouble 
that  shall  come  to  me  or  mine,  then  I  shall  not  only 
falsify  my  profession,  but  shall  admit  that  my  concern 
ments  are  not  so  sure  as  if  left  at  God's  feet  while  I 
stand  to  and  for  his  name,  as  they  would  be  if  they 
were  under  my  care,  though  with  the  denial  of  the 
way  of  God." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  you  will  be  able  to  do  these 
things  ?"  whispers  Satan.  "  How,  if  when  you  have 
made  hard  shift  to  clamber  up  the  ladder,  you  should 
with  quaking,  or  fainting,  or  some  other  symptom  of 
fear,  giv-e  occassion  to  the  enemy  to  reproach  the  way 
of  God  and  his  people  for  their  timorousness." 

"  But  if  I  can  but  speak  to  the  multitude  which  shall 
come  to  see  me  die,  and  if  God  will  but  convert  one 
soul  by  my  last  words,  I  shall  not  count  my  life  thrown 
away  nor  lost." 

Faith  is  gaining  the  ascendency  over  doubt  and 
dread,  and  the  prisoner's  face  lights  up  with  hope, 
and  bidding  Satan  get  behind  him,  he  seats  himself 
with  something  like  composure  to  contemplate  with 
joy  of  testifying  to  the  truth,  even  unto  death,  when 
the  Wicked  One  sounds  in  his  ear  so  loud  that  he  again 
rushes  to  his  feet. 

"  But  whither  must  you  go  when  you  die  ?  What 
will  become  of  you  ?  Where  will  you  be  found  in  an 
other  world  ?  What  evidence  have  you  for  heaven 
and  glory,  and  an  inheritance  among  them  that  are 
sanctified  ?" 

Ah,  these  are  searching  questions  that  dart  through 
his  soul,  causing  his  frame  to  quiver  with  the  energy 
of  despair.  Hear  him  as  he  answers,  "  I  must  go  on 


BUNYAN   IN   PRISON.  93 

and  venture  my  eternal  state  with  Christ,  whether  I 
have  comfort  or  not.  If  God  does  not  come  in,  I  will 
leap  off  the  ladder,  even  blindfold,  into  eternity — sink 
or  swim — come  heaven,  come  hell.  Lord  Jesus,  if  thou 
wilt  catch  me,  do ; — if  not,  I  will  venture  for  thy 
name." 

Thus  the  weary  night-watches  wear  on,  spent  by  the 
prisoner  in  self-examination,  reflection  and  prayer,  and 
the  gray  morning  finds  him  ready  to  be  offered.  Faith 
has  triumphed  over  fear.  Hope  has  conquered  doubt, 
Christ  has  slain  the  Evil  One.  His  shield  has  with 
stood  and  broken  the  fiery  darts  of  hell. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

BUNYAN     BEFORE     HIS     JUDGES. 

IT  is  a  cold,  piercing  morning  in  January,  1661. 
Everything  in  Bedford  is  astir  betimes,  for  it  is  the 
meeting  of  the  Quarter  Sessions,  and  it  has  been 
noised  throughout  the  whole  country  that  Bunyan  is 
to  be  tried  that  day.  Friends  and  foes  are  eager  to 
hear  his  defense,  for  his  fame  has  gone  to  every  hamlet 
and  farm-station,  and  awakened  in  every  breast  a  de 
sire  to  hear  the  man  who  had  so  nobly  withstood  the 
Justice  and  "  That  right  Judas." 

The  court-room  is  a  scene  of  eager  expectancy.  The 
crowd  is  partly  assembled.  The  prisoner  is  expected 
every  moment.  The  Justices  seated  in  all  their  con 
sequential  dignity,  prepared  to  enter  with  zest  on  the 
work  before  them.  There  are  five  of  them — Keeling, 
Blundale,  Leechir,  Chester,  and  Snagg.  Little  do  they 
think,  vain,  insolent,  minions  of  a  tyrant  King,  that 
the  prisoner,  whom  they  now  awrait  with  chafed  indig 
nation,  is  to  hand  down  their  names  to  posterity  cov 
ered  with  opprobium  !  That  this  day's  proceedings  is 
to  fix  upon  them  everlasting  disgrace  ! — to  enter  them 
as  "  mZ-letter  names  forever,  in  the  Almanac  of  Per 
secution." 

(94) 


BUN Y AN   BEFORE   HIS   JUDGES.  95 

The  felon  is  brought  in  by  the  Jailer  and  placed  in 
the  prisoner's  box.  All  attention  is  directed  to  him. 
He  bears  himself  calmly  and  unmoved.  No  earthly 
hand  is  there  to  support  him.  But  he  finds  support ; 
he  is  leaning  on  the  Arm  Omnipotent. 

They  bid  him  rise  up.  He  stands  ;  his  eyes  fixed 
unwaveringly  on  his  Judges.  The  indictment  is  pro 
duced.  The  clerk  of  the  Sessions  rises  and  reads  it. 

"  John  Bunyan,  of  the  town  of  Bedford,  laborer,  doth 
devilishly  and  perniciously,  abstain  from  coming  to 
church  to  hear  divine  service,  and  is  a  common  up 
holder  o.'  several  unlawful  meetings  and  conventicles, 
to  the  great  disturbance  and  distraction  of  the  good 
subjects  of  this  kingdom,  contrary  to  the  laws  of  our 
sovereign  Lord,  the  King." 

The  Clerk  pauses  for  a  moment,  and  looks  the  pris 
oner  steadily  in  the  face.  The  look  is  met  by  one 
equally  as  fixed. 

"  Prisoner,  what  say  you  to  this  ?"  he  asks  in  a  voice 
which  indicates  his  rage  and  contempt. 

The  prisoner  answers  calmly  and  unflinchingly : 

"  As  to  the  first  part  of  it,  I  am  a  common  frequen 
ter  of  the  church  of  God.  And  I  am,  also,  by  grace, 
a  member  of  the  people,  over  whom  Christ  is  the 
head." 

The  blood  mounts  to  the  face  of  Justice  Keeling,  who 
acts  as  Judge  on  the  occasion.  He  is  enraged  that  a 
prisoner,  and  he  a  tinker,  should  dare  thus  to  reply  in 
the  presence  of  the  officers  of  the  crown.  He  is  a  dark 
vindictive  man.  The  thirst  for  blood  is  in  his  heart, 
and  he  is  ready  at  all  times  to  deal  vengeance  upon 
those  who  dare  to  oppose  the  civil  laws  of  which  he  is 
the  insolent  representative. 


96  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

Assuming  such  importance  as  he  can,  he  addresses  the 
prisoner  imperatively. 

"  Do  you  come  to  church,  you  know  what  I  mean — 
to  the  parish  church — to  hear  divine  service  2" 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  is  the  firm  reply. 

"  And  why  don't  you  2"'  asks  the  insolent  Judge,  his 
face  burns  with  anger  as  he  speaks). 

"  Because  I  cannot  find  it  commanded  in  the  word 
of  God,"  answers  the  noble  confessor  right  boldly. 

"  "We  are  commanded  to  pray." 

"  But  not  by  the  common  prayer-book." 

"  How  then,  will  you  tell  me,  you  insolent  one  2" 

"  With  the  spirit.  As  the  apostle  saith, '  I  will  pray 
with  the  spirit  and  the  understanding.'  " 

"  Well,  we  can  pray  with  the  spirit  and  with  the 
understanding,  and  with  the  common  prayer-book  too," 
and  the  Judge  stamps  his  foot  with  rage. 

"  The  prayers  in  the  common  prayer-book  are  such 
as  are  made  by  other  men,  and  not  by  the  motion  of 
the  Holy  Ghost  within  our  hearts.  The  apostle  saith 
he  will  pray  with  the  spirit  and  the  understanding, 
and  not  with  the  common  prayer-book." 

Well  done,  thou  noble  defender  of  the  truth  as  it  is 
in  Christ  Jesus  !  Stand  firm  and  contend  for  thy  faith, 
though  the  odds  be  against  you.  Fear  not  what  man 
can  do.  He,  who  holds  the  scale  of  Justice  in  his  own 
hand,  will  himself  mete  out  jrour  reward.  Put  thy 
trust  in  God  ;  so  shalt  thou  inherit  the  land,  and  pos 
sess  the  holy  mountain.  The  Lord  hath  spoken  it. 

"  What  do  you  count  prayer  ?"  questions  Justice 
Chester,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  chafing  under  Bun- 
yan's  calm  collected  answers.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  to 
say  a  few  words  over  before,  or  among,  a  people  ?" 


BUNYAN   BEFORE   HIS   JUDGES.  97 

"  No,  not  so,  sir  ;  men  may  have  many  elegant,  yea, 
excellent  words,  and  yet  not  pray  at  all." 

"  But  how  do  we  know  that  you  do  not  write  out 
your  prayers  first,  and  then  read  them  afterwards  to 
the  people?"  asks  Justice  Blundale,  derisively.  This 
is  a  hard-hearted,  narrow  minded  bigot,  who  "  could 
cudgel  Non-conformists  as  well  as  question,  insult,  and 
fine  them."  To  this  jeering,  scornful  question,  Bunyan 
calmly  answers : 

"  It  is  no  use,  sir,  to  take  a  pen  and  paper  and  write 
a  few  words  thereon,  and  then  go  and  read  it  over  to  a 
company  of  people." 

"  But  how  shall  we  know  this  ?" 

"  Sir,  it  is  none  of  our  custom." 

Then  says  Keeling — 

"  But  it  is  lawful  to  use  the  common  prayer-book 
and  such  like  forms,  for  Christ  taught  his  disciples  to 
pray,  as  John,  also,  taught  his  disciples.  Cannot  one 
man  teach  another  to«pray  ?  Faith  comes  by  hearing, 
and  one  man  may  convince  another  of  sin ;  and 
therefore  prayers  made  by  men  and  read  over  are  good 
to  teach  and  help  men  to  pray." 

"  But,  sir,  the  scripture  saith,  '  that  is  the  Spirit  that 
helpeth  our  infirmities,  for  we  know  not  what  we 
should  pray  for  as  we  ought,  but  the  Spirit  itself 
maketh  intercession  for  us  with '  groanings  that  cannot 
be  uttered.'  Mark,  it  doth  not  say  the  common  pray 
er-book  teacheth  us  how  to  pray,  but  the  Spirit.  And 
'  it  is  the  Spirit  that  helpeth  our  infirmities,'  saith  the 
apostle  ;  he  doth  not  say  it  is  the  common  prayer-book. 
And  as  to  the  Lord's  prayer,  although  it  be  an  easy 
thing  to  say  '  Our  Father,'  &c.  with  the  mouth,  yet  there 
are  very  few  that  can,  in  the  spirit,  say  the  two  first 


98  MARY   BUNYAN. 

words  in  that  prayer,  that  is,  can  call  God  their  Father 
as  knowing  what  it  is  to  be  born  again,  and  as  having 
experience  that  they  are  begotten  of  the  Spirit  of  God, 
which  if  they  do  not,  all  is  but  babbling." 

"  This  is  a  truth.  But  what  have  you  against  the 
common  prayer-book  2"  asks  the  Judge  warmly. 

"  If  you  will  hear  me,  sir,  I  will  lay  down  my  reasons 
against  it." 

"  You  shall  have  liberty.  But  first  I  will  give  you 
one  caution.  Take  heed  of  speaking  irreverently  of 
the  common  prayer-book ;  for  if  you  do  so,  you  will 
bring  great  damage  upon  yourself." 

"  My  first  reason,  sir,  is,  that  it  is  not  commanded  in 
the  word  of  God,  and  therefore  I  cannot  use  it." 

"And  where  do  you  find  it  commanded  in  the 
Scripture  that  you  shall  go  to  Elstow  or  to  Bedford,  and 
yet  it  is  lawful  for  you  to  go  to  either  of  them,  is  it 
not  2"  asks  Justice  Snagg,  rising  to  his  feet,  and  looking 
scornfully  on  the  prisoner.  * 

"  To  go  to  Elstow  or  to  Bedford  is  a  civil  thing  and 
not  material,  though  not  commanded.  But  to  pray  is 
a  part  of  the  divine  worship  of  God,  and  it  ought, 
therefore,  to  be  done  according  to  the  rule  of  God's 
word." 

"  He  will  do  harm,  he  will  do  harm  ;  let  him  speak 
no  further  !"  exclaims  Chester,  in  a  loud  voice. 

But  Judge  Keeling  interrupts. 

"  No,  no,  never  fear  him  ;  we  are  better  established 
than  that ;  he  can  do  no  harm  ;  we  know  the  common 
prayer-book  hath  been  ever  since  the  APOSTLE'S  time, 
and  it  is  lawful  for  it  to  be  used  in  the  church." 

But  the  defender  wants  a  higher  authority  than  that, 
BO  he  demands — 


BTTNYAN   BEFORE  HIS   JUDGES. 

"  Show  me   the   place  in   the   epistles   where 
common   prayer-book  is  written,  or  one  of  scriptu 
that  commands  me  to  read  it.     Notwithstanding,  they 
that  have  a  mind  to  use  it  have  their  liberty,  I  would 
not  keep  them  from  it.     But  for  our  parts,  we  can  pray 
to  God  without  it,  blessed  be  his  name." 

"  "Who  is  your  God,  Beelzebub  ?  You  seem  possessed 
of  the  spirit  of  delusion  and  of  the  devil,"  and  Justice 
Leechir  shakes  his  head  in  tke  madness  of  his  rage. 
The  prisoner  regards  him  with  a  steady,  firm  look,  but 
answers  not.  to  his  vile  accusations. 

"Blessed  be  the  Lord,"  he  says,  when  their  words 
are  over,  "  we  are  encouraged  to  meet  together  and  to 
pray,  and  to  exhort  one  another,  for  we  have  had  the 
comfortable  presence  of  God  among  us,  forever  blessed 
be  his  holy  name." 

"  All  this  is  pedlar's  French!  leave  off  your  cant 
ing,"  and  Judge  Keeling,  no  longer  able  to  contain 
himself,  starts  from  his  seat,  and  shakes  his  head 
menacingly  at  the  prisoner. 

"  By  what  authority  do  you  preach  ?  You  have  no 
right  to  do  it  1"  he  exclaims  in  the  same  infuriated 
tone. 

"  I  can  prove  to  you,  sir,  if  you  will  but  hear  me, 
that  it  is  lawful  for  me,  and  such  as  I  am,  to  preach 
the  word  of  God." 

"  By  what  scripture,  tell  me  ?" 

"  By  that  in  the  first  Epistle  of  Peter,  the  fourth 
chapter  and  eleventh  verse,  and  Acts,  the  eighteenth 
chapter,  with  other  scriptures,  and" 

"  Hold,  hold  !  not  so  many  !  Which  is  the  first  ?" 
asks  the  Judge  in  a  low  voice- 

"  It  is  this,"  replies  the   prisoner   calmly.      "  '  As 


100  MAEY   BUNTAN. 

every  man  hath  received  the  gift,  even  so  let  him 
minister  the  same  unto  another,  as  good  stewards  of 
the  manifold  grace  of  God ;  if  any  man  speak,  let  him 
speak  as  the  oracles  of  God.'  ' 

"  Hold  there  ;  let  me  explain  that  scripture  to  you. 
*  As  every  man  hath  received  the  gift,'  that,  I  say,  as 
every  man  hath  received  a  trade,  so  let  him  follow  it. 
If  any  man  hath  received  the  gift  of  tinkering,  as  tJwu 
hast  done,  let  him  follow  his  tinkering,  and  so  other 
men  their  trades,  and  the  Divine  his  calling." 

"  Nay,  sir,  but  it  is  most  clear  that  the  apostles 
speak  here  of  preaching  the  word ;  if  you  do  but. 
compare  both  the  verses  together,  the  next  verso 
explains  this  gift,  what  it  is,  saying, '  If  any  man  speak, 
let  him  speak  as  the  oracles  of  God.'  So  that  it  is 
plain  that  the  Holy  Ghost  doth  not  so  much  in  this 
place  exhort  to  civil  callings,  as  to  the  exercise  of 
those  gifts  that  we  have  received  from  God." 

"  This  you  may  do  in  your  family,  but  nowhere 
else." 

"  But,  sir,  if  it  is  lawful  to  do  good  to  some,  is  it  not 
lawful  to  do  good  to  more  ?  If  it  is  a  good  duty  to 
exhort  our  families,  it  is  good  to  exhort  others.  But, 
sir,  if  you  hold  it  a  sin  to  meet  together  to  seek  the 
face  of  God  and  to  exhort  one  another  to  follow  Christ, 
then  I  shall  sin  still,  for  so  I  shall  do,"  and  the  man 
of  God  looks  the  infuriate  Justices  stedfastly  in  the 
face. 

"  Hold,  hold !  I  will  not  dispute  with  you.  "We 
cannot  wait  on  you  any  longer.  You  confess  to  the 
indictment,  do  you?" 

"  This  I  confess :  We  have  had  many  meetings 
together,  both  to  pray  to  God  and  to  exhort  one 


BUNYAN   BEFORE   HIS   JUDGES.  101 

another :    and  we  have  had   the    sweet,   comfortm* 

7  '  O 

presence  of  the  Lord  among  ns  for  encouragement, 
blessed  be  his  name  ;  therefore  I  confess  myself  guilty, 
and  not  otherwise.  And" 

"Stop,  stop,"  exclaims  the  Judge,  "you  confess 
yourself  guilty,  do  you?  Then  hear  your  judgment: 
Ton  must  be  had  back  again  to  prison,  and  there  lie 
for  three  months  following ;  and  at  three  months'  end 
if  you  do  not  submit  to  go  to  church  to  hear  divine 
service,  and  leave  your  preaching,  you  must  be  ban 
ished  the  realm  ;  and  if,  after  such  a  day  as  shall  be 
appointed  you  to  be  gone,  you  shall  be  found  in  this 
realm,  or  be  found  to  be  come  over  again  without 
special  license  from  the  King,  you  must  stretch  ~by  the 
neck  for  it,  I  tell  you  plainly." 

The  prisoner  looks  the  Judge  unflinchingly  in  the 
face,  as  he  answers : 

"  As  to  this  matter,  sir,  I  am  at  a  point  with  you, 
for  if  I  were  out  of  prison  to-day,  by  the  help  of  God  I 
would  preach  the  gospel  again  to-morrow  /" 

"  Away  with  him,  away  with  him  !"  vociferates  the 
Judge,  and  the  Justices  join  in  the  cry,  "  Away  with 
him,  away  with  him !"  The  Jailer  seizes  upon  him 
and  hurries  him  to  the  jail. 

Well  done,  thou  good  and  noble  confessor!  Thou 
zealous  contender  for  the  faith,  great  shall  be  thy 
reward  when  the  Lord  God  shall  come  to  make  up  his 
jewels.  Thou  hast  borne  good  testimony  before  men, 
and  thou  shalt  stand  approved  of  Him  before  men  and 
angels  at  the  great  day  of  final  accounts.  Oh,  that 
thy  spirit  were  now  in  every  Christian  bosom  !  Then 
should  one  chase  a  thousand,  and  two  put  ten  thou- 


102  MARY   BUNYAN. 

sand  to  flight.     Then  should  Ziou  awake  to  put  on  her 
strength,  and  "  go  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer." 

Oh,  spirit  of  the  living  God,  breathe  upon  the 
children  of  the  Most  High !  quicken  them  from  their 
stupor  and  death,  that  they  may  gird  on  the  whole 
gospel  armor,  and  go  forth  to  fight  valiantly  the  battles 
of  the  everlasting  God  1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE     PRAYER     MEETING 

IT  is  a  cold,  cheerless,  January  evening.  The  stars 
have  hid  themselves  behind  the  thick,  dull  clouds.  The 
rain  falls  chill  and  penetrating.  The  wind  roars  through 
the  leafless  brandies  of  the  trees,  and  wails  through 
the  desolate  streets.  All  nature,  animate  and  inani 
mate,  seems  benumbed  by  the  cold  bleak  air. 

In  a  small  room  of  an  humble  dwelling,  situated  just 
without  the  town  of  Bedford,  a  company  of  men  and 
women  are  assembled. 

"What  is  it  that  has  brought  old  men  and  women, 
young  men  and  maidens,  from  their  homes  such  a  fear 
ful  night  as  this  ?  Surely  their  hearts  are  warm  in 
some  cause.  Surely  their  desires  must  be  ardent.  "  "We 
will  not  letthee  go  until  thou.  bless  us,"  seems  to  have 
been  the  determination  which  nerved  them  to  dare  the 
pitiless  blast  and  the  fast  falling  rain. 

It  is  a  Prayer-meeting. 

The  little  church  at  Bedford  have  set  apart  this  night 
for  earnest  prayer  to  God  in  behalf  of  themselves  and 
of  their  dearly  beloved  brother  Bunyan.  The  women 
are  there  "  whom  Bunyan  saw  sitting  in  the  sun  at  the 
door-side,  and  who  had  directed  him  to  the  Lamb  of 

(103) 


104  MARY   BUNYAN. 

God  who  taketli  away  the  sin  of  the  world."  It  is  a 
momentous  time.  Each  heart  shares  the  burden  which 
has  fallen  on  the  little  congregation.  A  solemn  air 
pervades  the  small  assembly ;  and  anxious  fears  pre 
vail  lest  the  worst  is  not  yet.  A  sigh  steals  out  from 
an  overburdened  heart,  and  is  answered  by  another, 
another  and  another  from  hearts  less  pressed  down  be 
neath  a  weight  of  sorrow. 

The  holy  man  enters  with  a  slow,  calm  step,  and  is 
greeted  by  a  kindly  look  from  every  eye.  He  shakes 
hands  with  two  or  three  of  the  aged  brethren  as  he 
seats  himself  near  the  stand  on  which  rests  the  Bible. 
All  is  still  as  death,  save  when  some  troubled  heart 
sends  up  a  silent  petition  in  groanings  that  cannot  be 
uttered. 

Another  enters  and  falls  into  a  vacant  seat, — then 
another,  and  another,  until  the  room  is  well  nigh 
filled. 

The  aged  man  arises  and  opens  the  old  worn  Bible. 

"  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled  ;  ye  believe  in  God, 
believe  also  in  me,"  falls  in  soft  full  strains  from  his 
lips.  With  feeling  he  reads  through  that  beautiful 
chapter,  the  fourteenth  of  John,  so  rich  with  consola 
tion  to  the  tried  heart.  "  In  this  world  ye  shall  have 
tribulation,  my  brethren,  but  in  Christ  ye  shall  have 
peace.  Let  us  pray." 

The  whole  company  kneel,  and,  while  the  man  of 
God  sends  up  a  fervent  petition  to  the  Most  High  that 
his  Almighty  arm  shall  work  out  deliverance  for  his 
children,  a  silent  "  amen"  is  going  up  from  each  bowed 
heart.  "  Oh,  deliver  thy  servant  from  the  hand  of 
the  persecutor,  and  grant,  oh  God,  that  the  guidance 
and  strength  of  thy  Holy  Spirit  may  be  vouchsafed  to 


THE   PRAYER  MEETING.  105 

thy  people,  that  they  may  be  enabled  to  acquit  them 
selves  like  men.  Oh,  may  they  be  indued  with  power 
from  on  high  to  bear  testimony  to  the  unsearchable 
riches  of  the  glorious  gospel  of  the  Son  of  God  ;  and, 
if  need  be,  to  seal  that  testimony  with  their  blood. 
Give  unto  them  that  faith  which  overcometh  the  world. 
And  if  imprisonment  await  us,  as  it  has  done  our 
brother,  let  us  be  sustained  and  strengthened,  that  we 
may  endure  hardness  as  good  soldiers  of  our  Lord  Je 
sus  Christ.  Oh,  eternal  God,  be  our  refuge,  place  be 
neath  us  thine  everlasting  arms  of  love.  Thrust  out 
the  enemy  from  before  us,  tread  upon  their  high  places 
and  destroy  them,  that  they  may  vex  thy  people  no 
more.  And  say  unto  thy  people,  '  Fear  thon  not  for  I 
am  with  thee ;  be  not  dismayed  for  I  am  thy  God  ;  I  will 
strengthen  thee,  yea,  I  will  help  thee.  I  will  uphold 
thee  with  the  right  hand  of  my  righteousness,'  for  thou, 
oh  Lord  God,  giveth  power  to  the  faint,  and  to  them 
that  have  no  might  thou  increasest  strength.  Oh,  make 
then  for  us  a  way  in  the  sea,  a  path  in  the  mighty  wa 
ters,  that  the  floods  may  not  overwhelm  us,  that  we 
may  pass  through  dry  shod  from  the  hands  of  our 
enemies." 

The  stillness  of  death  is  upon  that  little  assembly, 
broken  only  by  the  supplicant's  earnest  voice,  and  now 
and  then  a  groan  which  forces  its  way  from  some  sur 
charged  bosom.  Each  heart  is  melted,  and  there  is  mucli 
of  self-examination  ;  and  many  a  fervent,  unuttered 
prayer  ascends  to  the  throne  of  sovereign  love  for  grace 
to  meet  the  darkest  hour,  for  strength  to  triumph  over 
all  foes,  and  that  support  might  be  vouchsafed  to  him, 
who  for  the  gospel's  sake  had  been  assaulted,  derided, 
and  vilely  cast  into  prison. 


106  MAEY   BUNYAN. 

They  rise  from  their  knees  and  sing  a  song  of  praise 
to  God.  Another  prayer  is  offered,  another  song  sung, 
and  aged  Brother  Landon  rises  to  talk  awhile  to  the 
little  baud.  He  is  one  who  has  been  on  the  pilgrim 
age  many  a  long,  weary  year.  He  has  fought  some 
hot  battles  with  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil, 
always  conquering  through  grace.  Every  one  pres 
ent  knows  him,  and  his  words  fall  like  sweet  music  on 
their  listening  ears.  His  long  gray  hair  flows  over  his 
shoulders,  his  form  is  stooped  under  the  burden  of  life's 
journey,  and  his  thin  hand  trembles  as  he  lifts  it  to 
wipe  the  tears  from  his  dimmed  eyes.  But  over  his 
face  there  shines  a  look  of  radiant  love,  which  tells  us 
he  has  been  with  Jesus. 

He  wipes  the  tears  from  his  face  and  looks  upwards, 
then  placing  his  hands  quietly  behind  him  says : 
"  Dearly  beloved  brethren  and  sisters  in  the  Lord,  I 
once  was  young,  but  now  I  am  old,  yet  have  I  never  seen 
the  righteous  forsaken  nor  his  seed  begging  bread,  for 
the  Lord  is  his  portion,  and  hath  sworn  unto  him  the 
sure  mercies  of  David.  Did  not  God  himself  destroy  the 
foes  of  Israel,  even  all  that  did  vex  and  pursue  them  ? 
Did  he  not  triumph  gloriously  over  the  hosts  of  Egypt, 
and  cast  the  horse  and  the  rider  into  the  sea  ?  Did  he 
not  cut  off  the  enemies  of  his  people  in  the  wilderness 
and  bring  them  safely  into  the  promised  land  ?  Has  he 
not  been  with  them  that  fear  him  in  all  generations  a 
hedge  round  about  them,  so  that  the  enemy  could  not 
come  near  to  hurt  them  ?  Did  he  not  turn  the  rock 
into  standing  water,  the  flint  into  a  fountain  of  waters  ? 
Did  he  not  say,  '  I  have  created  thee,  O  Jacob,  and 
have  formed  thee,  O  Israel  ;  fear  not  for  I  have  re 
deemed  thee.  I  have  called  thee  by  thy  name,  thou  art 


THE   PRAYER   MEETING.  107 

mine  ?  Oh,  my  brethren,  hearken  to  his  promises,  and 
let  your  soul  rest  on  his  word  ;  for  he  is  true,  and  he 
will  bring  it  to  pass  ;  he  is  mighty,. and  he  will  deliver. 
He  himself  will  shield  us  from  our  enemies  and  give 
us  power  to  overcome,  will  hedge  us  in  on  the  right 
hand  and  the  left,  and  provide  for  us  a  way  of  escape. 
For  although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom,  neither 
shall  fruits  be  on  the  vines,  the  labor  of  the  olive  shall 
fail,  and  the  fields  yield  no  meat,  the  flocks  be  cut  oif 
from  the  fold,  and  there  shall  be  no  herd  in  the  stalls, 
yet  will  I  rejoice  in  the  Lord,  I  will  joy  in  the  God  of 
my  salvation.'  Let  us  not  grow  weary  then,  nor  faint 
by  the  way.  Thanks  to  his  high  and  holy  name,  he 
'hath  brought  me  thus  far  on  my  journey,  and  here 
again  I  set  up  my  Ebenezer  in  the  presence  of  you, 
my  brethren,  and  of  witnessing  angels,  and  inscribe 
thereon,  "  Unto  him  who  hath  loved  me  and  washed 
me  from  my  sins  in  his  own  blood,  and  hath  made  me 
a  king  and  a  priest  unto  God,  to  him  be  glory  and  do 
minion  and  power  forever  and  forever.  Amen." 

Amen,  and  amen,  responds  every  heart  in  that 
weeping  assembly  as  the  old  man  takes  his  seat. 

Another  brother  rises  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room  to  bear  his  testimony  to  the  goodness  and  love 
of  God.  He  is  a  younger  soldier  than  Brother  Landon, 
but  he,  too,  has  been  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and 
his  scars  testify  how  valiantly  he  has  fought  the 
battles  of  the  Lord.  And  thus  he  tells  of  his  warfare  : 

"  My  brethren,  when  Moses  held  up  his  hand  Israel 
prevailed,  and  when  he  let  down  his  hand  Amalek 
prevailed  ;  and  so  it  is  with  us  throughout  our  earthly 
warfare.  "Whenever  we  trust  in  God,  and  send  up, 
from  unfeigned  lips,  a  cry  to  him  for  his  help,  then  his 


108  MARY   BCNYAN. 

own  right  band  doth  get  for  us  the  victory  over  all  our 
foes.  Then  are  the  -Amaleks  that  would  destroy  us 
discomfited  with  the  edge  of  the  sword ;  then  can  we 
build  our  altars  and  call  them  Jehovah-nissi.  But,  my 
brethren,  we  must  not  faint  by  the  way,  for,  if  we  do, 
Amalek  will  prevail.  We  must  hold  up  our  hands. 
We  must  pray  the  prayer  of  faith  ;  then  shall  one 
chase  a  thousand,  and  two  put  ten  thousand  to  flight. 
The  times  are  dark  around  us  ;  the  enemy  besets  us  on 
every  side.  The  people  of  Grod  are  insulted,  and 
imprisoned,  and  slain.  They  have  become  a  hissing 
among  the  nations,  a  by-word  and  term  of  reproach  to 
all  people  ;  they  are  scattered  and  peeled  ;  they  are 
smitten  with  the  rod  of  the  Assyrian,  and  the  Philis 
tine  is  hard  upon  them.  But  their  cry  has  gone  up 
before  the  Lord  of  hosts,  and  he  will  have  respect  unto 
all  their  troubles.  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on 
Jacob,  and  will  yet  choose  Israel,  and  the  day  shall 
come  when  the  Lord  shall  give  his  people  rest  from  all 
their  sorrows,  and  from  the  hard  bondage  wherein 
they  are  to  made  to  serve  ;  for  he  shall  break  the 
staff  of  the  wicked  and  the  scepter  of  the  rulers  and 
the  enemies  of  his  people  shall  be  chased  as  the  chaff 
of  the  mountains  before  the  wind,  and  like  a  rolling 
thing  before  the  whirlwind.  This  shall  be  the  portion 
of  them  that  spoil  us,  and  the  lot  of  them  that  rob  us. 
Let  us  trust  in  the  Lord,  my  brethren,  and  he  will 
bring  us  out  of  all  our  troubles.  Let  us  pray  earnestly 
for  our  brother  who  has  been  called  upon  to  bear  his 
testimony  before  men,  and  has  been  condemned  to 
suffering  for  the  sake  of  the  gospel  of  our  blessed  Mas 
ter.  Let  us  pray  that  grace  may  be  given  him  equal 
to  his  day,  and  that  he  may  be  able  to  praise  the  Lord 


TTfi:    PRAYER   MEETING.  109 

in  his  chains  and  in  the  dark  dungeon.  And  if  he 
and  we  shall  be  called  upon  to  witness  to  the  world 
that  God  is  true,  let  us  acquit  ourselves  like  men,  and 
be  willing  to  suffer,  even  to  the  offering  up  of 
ourselves,  that  his  love  and  his  goodness  may  be  known, 
and  liis  truth  preserved  in  the  earth.  And  here  this 
night  let  us  renew  our  covenant  vows  to  the  Lord  and 
to  one  another,  and  wrestle  with  God  for  a  blessing  as 
did  Jacob  of  old,  that  we  may  have  power  with  God 
and  with  men,  and  prevail  over  our  enemies.  And 
may  this  be  unto  us  a  Bethel,  where  the  Lord  shall 
answer  us  in  the  day  of  our  distresses  ;" — and  he 
knelt- in  the  midst  of  them  and  Avith  David  prayed. 

"  How  long  wilt  thou  forget  us,  oh  Lord  ?  Forever  ? 
How  long  wilt  thou  hide  thy  face  from  us  ?  How 
long  shall  we  take  counsel  in  our  souls,  having  sorrow 
in  our  hearts  daily  ?  How  long  shall  our  enemies  be 
exalted  over  us  ?  Deliver  us  from  our  enemies,  oh 
God.  Defend  us  from  them  that  rise  up  against  us  ; 
deliver  us  from  the  workers  of  iniquity,  and  save  us 
from  bloody  men.  They  hate  us  without  a  cause; 
they  lie  in  wait  for  us.  "We  are  poor  and  needy. 
Make  haste,  O  God,  to  help  us  ;  for  thou  art  our  help 
and  our  deliverer.  O  Lord,  make  no  tarrying;  we 
trust  in  thee  and  not  in  man ;  we  put  confidence  in 
thee  and  not  in  princes.  Surely  the  righteous  shall 
give  thanks  unto  thy  name  ;  the  upright  shall  dwell  in 
thy  presence.  Guide  us  through  life,  and  afterwards 
receive  us  into  glory,  and  to  thy, name  and  thine  alone, 
Father,  Son,  and  Eternal  Spirit,  be  everlasting  praise. 
Amen." 

Another  and  another  speaks  and  prays.  Their 
hearts  are  knit  together  in  bonds  of  Christian  affection. 


110  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

And  the  groan,  and  sigh,  and  falling  tear  attest  that 
love  which  says,  "  For  one  is  your  Master,  even  Christ, 
and  all  ye  are  brethren." 

Thus  the  time  passes  in  prayer  and  praise  and  exhor 
tation  until  the  night  is  far  spent.  No  petition  has 
been  offered  that  did  not  bear  up  before  a  throne  of 
pitying  love  that  faithful  brother  whom  chains  held  to 
the  earth  because  he  would  preach  the  gospel  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Their  hearts  are  bound  to  his  by 
cords  of  holy  love.  They  are  afflicted  in  his  afflictions, 
and  are  partakers  of  his  shame. 

The  aged  pastor  once  more  arises  to  speak  to  them. 

It  is  John  Gifford,  "  that  holy  man  of  God,"  as 
Bunyan  is  wont  to  call  him.  He  is  the  under  shepherd 
over  the  little  flock  at  Bedford.  He  goes  in  and  out 
before  them  dispensing  unto  them  the  bread  of  life, 
giving  unto  each  his  portion  in  due  season,  even  as  the 
Holy  Spirit  gave  him  guidance 

He  wipes  the  streaming  tears  from  his  wrinkled  face, 
and,  with  an  effort,  subdues  his  swelling  emotion. 
Composing  himself,  he  speaks  in  a  voice  full  of  love 
and  gratitude : 

"  My  dearly  beloved  brethren  and  sisters  in  the 
Lord,  the  purchase  of  Christ's  blood  and  the  seal  of  his 
redemption,  I  would  speak  to  you  this  night,  words  of 
encouragement  that  you  may  be  built  up  and  strength 
ened,  made  perfect  men  and  women  in  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  And  girded  about  with  his  salvation,  and 
relying  on  his  sure  word  of  promise  which  can  never 
fail,  for  it  is  yea  and  amen  for  ever,  I  would  exhort 
you  to  all  patience  and  long  suffering,  that  ye  may 
acquit  yourselves  men  and  women  in  the  Lord,  and  be 
a  light  to  the  world  in  the  midst  of  this  crooked  and 


THE   PKAYER   MEETING.  Ill 

perverse  generation.  God's  ways  towards  his  people 
are  oftentimes  dark  and  mysterious,  my  brethren,  and, 
were  it  not  for  that  increase  of  faith  being  granted  to 
us  for  which  the  apostle  prayed,  we  could  not  bear  up 
under  the  trials  which  beset  our  pilgrimage  through 
this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow.  Amid  the  storms  and 
billows  of  this  life,  when  the  fierce  blasts  of  persecution 
s\veep  over  us,  and  the  forked  lightnings  of  man's 
wrath  threaten  to  strike  us  through,  we  should 
certainly  make  shipwreck  of  all  our  hopes  and  expect 
ations  did  not  God  give  unto  us  an  increased  measure 
of  his  all-supporting  grace.  My  grace  shall  be  suffi 
cient  for  thee,  he  tells  us,  and  we  believe  it.  Thanks 
to  his  holy  name  that  he  has  given  us  this  blessed 
promise,  which  is  an  anchor  to  the  soul  both  sure  and 
steadfast.  '  My  grace  is  sufficient.'  To  this  we  moor 
and  are  safe.  Let  the  storm  rage  with  dreadful  power 
and  the  fierce  winds  howl  in  wildest  fury,  we  will  not 
fear,  for  the  Captain  of  our  salvation  is  at  the  helm, 
and  he  will  guide  us  safely  through  the  passage,  and 
land  us  at  last  in  the  haven  of  eternal  safety  and  rest. 
"  The  clouds  and  storm  are  black  round  about  us 
now,  my  brethren,  and  the  fierce  winds  of  persecution 
howl '  about  our  ears.  Our  dearly  beloved  Brother 
Bunyan  has  been  seized  upon  by  the  relentless  grasp  ot 
the  tyrant's  law,  and  has-been  borne  from  our  midst 
to  a  noisome  cell,  from  which  he  may  be  dragged  to 
meet  an  ignominious  death,  or  he  may  lay  there  long 
weary  years,  dragging  out  a  life  of  wretched  captivity. 
Our  hearts  are  sorrowful  even  unto  death.  But,  my 
brethren,  the  hand  of  God  is  in  it.  These  things  are 
not  of  chance,  neither  do  they  rise  up  out  of  the  ground. 
They  are  sent  by  the  hand  of  Him  who  ruleth  the 


112  MARY   BUNYAN. 

universe.  They  are  designed  to  teach  us  an  important 
lesson,  to  try  our  faith,  to  prove  whether  we  are  really 
sons  and  daughters  of  God,  or  whether  we  are  deceived. 
And  it  is  our  duty  now,  as  dear  children  of  God,  to 
walk  worthy  of  the  vocation  wherewith  we  are  called, 
examining  ourselves  daily  to  see  if  we  be  in  the  faith, 
and  ever  to  be  ready  to  testify  for  God,  though  we 
know  bonds  and  imprisonment  await  us. 

"  Brother  Bunyan  is  in  prison,  but  it  is  for  the  gos 
pel's  sake.  Let  us  sympathize  with  him  and  his  suffer 
ing  family,  but  let  us  not  complain  against  Jehovah 
that  he  hath  done  this  thing.  His  wisdom  hath 
directed  it.  Oh,  I  know  well  the  darkness  and  gloom 
of  the  damp  rayless  cell.  I  have  beenv  there  myself, 
my  brethren,  but  it  was  not  as  a  witness  of  the  glori 
ous  truth  of  our  Lord  and  Master.  Oh,  no,  I  had  no 
such  honor  and  joy  as  this  in  my  dark  captivity. 
Would  to  God  I  had  had  !  I  was  a  slave  of  sin  !  In 
bondage  to  the  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air,  that 
spirit  which  worketh  in  the  children  of  disobedience. 
I  had  borne  arms  against  the  people  of  the  Most  High 
to  support  a  royalty  which  gloated  in  blood  of  the 
saints.  I  had  bid  defiance  to  the  Lord  of  Glory,  and 
had  taken  league  with  the  enemy  of  the  King  of 
Heaven.  But,  thanks  to  his  marvellous  love,  he 
snatched  me  from,  the  jaws  of  hell,  he  rescued  me 
from  everlasting  burnings." 

The  old  man  pauses,  he  cannot  proceed.  He  thinks 
of  the  exceeding  love  of  God,  and  his  heart  is  broken 
within  him.  Oh,  how  much  he  loves,  for  he  has  had 
much  forgiven  !  Surely  lie,  above  all  others,  is  a  mir 
acle  of  grace. 


THE    PRAYER   MEETING.  113 

Wiping  the  flowing  tears  from  his  face,  and  control- 
ing  his  voice,  he  proceeds. 

"  Sentence  of  death  had  been  passed  upon  me,  and 
I  and  seven  others  were  to  be  hung  for  our  allegiance 
to  the  dethroned  king.  We  lay  groaning  in  the  prison. 
The  last  nisrht  had  come,  and  I  sat  heartless  and  stu- 

CD  / 

pid  in  my  cell,  knowing  that  the  morning  would  bring 
my  execution.  Oh,  what  a  power  does  Satan  gain  over 
the  souls  of  men.  I  was  to  die.  I  knew  it.  A  few 
hours  more  and  I  should  be  in  eternity,  before  the  bar 
of  God  ;  and  yet  I  defied  death  and  eternity,  and 
thought,  with  bitter  cursings,  on  what  I  had  been,  what 
I  then  was,  and  what  was  before  me  in  the  future.  Oh, 
my  brethren,  my  heart  was  besotted  with  sin.  The 
light  of  reason  had  been  darkened  by  the  Evil  One, 
and  I  was  a  willing  captive  to  the  Arch  Enemy  of  my 
soul.  But  God,  even  the  great  and  holy  God,  had  in 
tentions  of  mercy  towards  me,  the  chief  of  sinners." 

The  old  man's  words  are  choked  by  tears.  Tears 
are  in  the  eye  of  every  listener.  All  is  breathless  si 
lence. 

"  It  was  past  the  hour  of  midnight,"  he  resumes  as 
soon  as  he  can  command  himself  sufficiently  to  proceed, 
"  and  I  sat,  as  I  tell  you,  cursing  my  fate.  I  cursed 
the  hour  I  was  born,  the  course  I  had  pursued,  the  jus 
tice  that  had  overtaken,  and  the  doom  that  awaited  me, 
I  would  not  listen  to  the  monitions  of  conscience  that 
told  me  I  alone  was  the  culpable  one.  I  bade  consci 
ence  be  still, — and  cursed  on.  My  sister  entered  the 
prison  and  stood  before  me.  It  seemed  the  presence 
of  an  angel.  I  could  scarcely  trust  my  vision.  She 
spoke  to  me,  and  urged  me  to  fly.  I  heeded  not  her 
words.  She  repeated  her  importunities  with  increased 


MARY   BUNYAN. 

vehemence.  I  told  her  *  it  was  impossible,  I  could  not 
escape  ;  the  guards  were  on  the  watch  and  it  was  folly 
to  attempt  to  pass  them.'  '  Fear  not  this,'  she  an 
swered,  '  the  guards  are  fast  asleep  without,  and  your 
fellow-prisoners  are  dead  drunk  within,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  give  alarm.  Make  haste  !  make  haste  !  my 
brother !  fly  from  these  dreadful  walls.  Fly,  I  beseech 
thee,  fly/ 

"  Scarcely  conscious  of  what  I  did,  and  with  but  lit. 
tie  hope  of  succeeding  in  my  attempt,  I  suffered  my 
self  to  be  led  by  my  sister  whithersoever  she  chose. 
"We  gained  the  outer  prison,  and  in  safety  passed  the 
sleeping  guards.     The  hand  of  God  guided  us  beyond 
danger,  and  I  was  saved  !      Saved  from  death,  saved 
from  hell  !      Oh,  what  abundant  reason  have  I,  my 
brethren,  to  be  thankful  to  God,  and  to  trust  his  holy 
word.     How  manifest  was  his  hand  in  my  deliverance 
from  death  !     But  he  had  also  delivered  me  from  the 
curse  of  sin,  under  which  I  was  so  long  a  time  in  bon 
dage.     Herein  is  his  love  manifest  that  he  gave  his 
Sou  for  us,  the  just  for  the  unjust,  that  we  might  be 
reconciled  to  him  through  the  blood  of  atonement,  and 
escape  the  awful  doom  under  wrhich  fallen  sinners  rest 
because  of  sin  and  disobedience.  Oh,  wonderous  love  ! 
Oh,  infinite  condescension  !     God  bowed  the  heavens 
and  came  down  to  pity  us  and  save  us  from  our  low 
estate,  when  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  and  no  arm  to 
save  !     Let  us,  my  brethren,  praise  his  glorious  name. 
Let  us  sing  praises  unto  the  Most  High  God  that  he 
hath  delivered  iis  from  everlasting  death,  and   hath 
given  us  an  inheritance  with  the  saints  in  light — an  in 
heritance  incorruptible  and  unden'led,  and  which  pass- 
eth  not  away.     -Oh,  let  us  trust  his  gracious  promises 


THE   PKAYER   MEETING.  115 

now  that  all  these  things  seem  to  be  against  us,  for  we 
know  that  he  is  both  able  and  willing  to  preserve  his 
people  from  the  hands  of  their  enemies,  and  that  he 
will  deliver  Israel  from  the  land  of  bondage.  '  Glory 
and  honor,  and  power,  and  dominion  to  him  that  sit- 
teth  on  the  throne,  and  to  the  Lamb  forever  and  ever.' 
Let  us  not  fear,  my  brethren  and  sisters,  what  man 
can  do  unto  us  ;  for  no  weapon  turned  against  the 
righteous  shall  prosper,  for  the  mischief  of  the  wicked 
shall  return  upon  his  own  head,  and  his  violent  deal 
ings  shall  come  down  upon  his  own  pate.  Let  us  be 
encouraged  by  the  example  of  those,  who,  through 
faith,  have  overcome  and  have  entered  into  the  prom 
ised  rest.  They  had  trials  of  cruel  mockings  and 
scourgings,  yea,  moreover,  of  bonds  and  imprisonments. 
They  were  stoned,  they  were  sawn  asunder,  were 
tempted,  were  slain  with  the  sword.  They  wandered 
about  in  sheep-skins  and  in  goat-skins,  being  destitute, 
afflicted,  tormented.  These  obtained  a  good  report 
through  faith,  though  they  received  not  the  promise. 
But  God  hath  provided  some- better  things  for  us  :  and 
seeing  that  we  are  compassed  about  with  so  great  a  cloud 
of  witnesses,  my  brethren,  let  us  lay  aside  every  weight 
and  the  sin  which  doth  so  easily  beset  us,  and  let  us 
run  with  patience  the  race  set  before  us,  looking  unto 
Jesus,  the  author  and  finisher  of  our  faith,  who,  for  us, 
laid  aside  the  glory  of  heaven  and  became  a  man  of 
sorrow,  bearing  infamy,  and  shame,  and  bufferings, 
that  we,  through  his  sufferings  and  distress,  might  be 
made  heirs  of  eternal  bliss  at  God's  right  hand.  Let 
us  then,  my  brethren,  take  up  the  cross,  despising  the 
shame 

"  The  Lord  himself  will  come  to  avenge  his  people 


116  MAKY    BUflTAN. 

and  our  enemies  shall  have  confusion  of  face  ;  they 
shall  lick  the  dust,  their  lofty  looks  shall  be  humbled, 
and  their  haughtiness  shall  be  bowed  down.  For  be 
hold  the  day  corneth  that  they  shall  burn  as  an  oven, 
and  all  the  proud,  and  all  that  do  wickedly  shall  be 
stubble,  ftnd  the  day  that  cometh  shall  burn  them  up 
that  it  shall  leave  neither  root  nor  branch.  The  Lord 
of  Hosts  himself  hath  spoken  it.  But  unto  them  that 
fear  his  name  shall  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  arise  with 
healing  in  his  wings.  Let  us  then,  my  brethren,  trust 
in  the  Lord,  knowing  there  are  yet  some  in  Israel  that 
have  not  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal.  The  Lord  God  Om 
nipotent  reigneth,  and  Zion  shall  awake  to  put  on  her 
strength,  and  Jerusalem,  the  holy  city,  shall  arise, 
shake  herself  from  the  dust,  and  put  on  her  beautiful 
garments  ;  for  the  Lord  will  make  bare  his  holy  arm 
in  the  eyes  of  all  the  nations,  and  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth  shall  see  the  salvation  of  our  God." 

The  pastor  seats  himself,  overcome  by  the  intensity 
of  his  feelings.  Tears  stream  down  his  wrinkled  cheek. 
His  face  is  lighted  up  with  the  radiance  of  prophetic 
vision.  His  soul  is  stayed  on  the  promises  of  God. 
What  can  he  fear  ?  I  AM  THAT  I  AM  hath  spoken,  he 
cannot  doubt.  He  knows  that  the  Lord's  hand  is  not 
shortened  that  it  cannot  save,  but  that  his  own  right 
hand  and  holy  arm  shall  get  to  him  an  everlasting  vic 
tory. 

Each  heart  takes  fresh  courage  as  his  words  of  hope 
and  consolation  sink  deep  into  every  bosom  ;  and, 
when  he  has  commended  them  to  God,  each  one  goes 
forth  from  that  little  assembly,  feeling,  as  did  Paul 
when  he  thought  of  Jerusalem,  "  ready  to  be  offered 
for  the  gospel's  sake." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE      TRUE     WIFE MRS.      BUNYAN     GOES     TO 

LONDON     TO     PETITION     FOR    HER 
HUSBAND'S     RELEASE. 

How  dark,  oftentimes,  and  mysterious  are  the  prov 
idences  of  God  in  his  dealings  with  his  people.  When 
after  the  counsel  of  his  own  mind  he  leads  them  by  a 
way  they  know  not,  and  makes  them,  like  his  servant 
of  old,  "  weary"  and  to  desire  the  grave,  they  are  made 
iofeel,  as  well  as  to  utter,  "  How  unsearchable  are  his 
judgments  and  his  ways  past  finding  out." 

Only  faith,  firm  and  steadfast,  can  bear  them  up 
under  the  crushing  difficulties  through  which,  in  his 
wisdom  and  love,  he  sometimes  calls  them  to  pass. 
Philosophy  cannot  do  it,  reason  is  of  no  avail,  the 
smile  of  the  world  is  vanity,  and  friends  prove  "  miser 
able  comforters."  Only  faith  in  the  omnipotent  arm  of 
the  Lord  God  Jehovah  can  support  them  when  "  the 
enemy  is  round  about,"  and  only  that  arm  omnipotent 
can  work  out  for  them  sure  deliverance. 

Oftentimes,  like  Abraham  of  old,  we  are  commanded 
to  take  the  wood  of  the  burnt  offering  and  lay  it  upon 
our  only  son  Isaac.  And  we  take  the  fire  in  one  hand, 
and  a  knife,  and  we  move  onward  to  the  place  of  sacri 
fice  :  and  as  we  journey  along  with  timid,  fearful 
hearts,  we  hear  a  voice  say,  "  offer  him,  iip,  thine  son, 
(117) 


118  MARY   BIJNYAN. 

thine  only  son  Isaac"  Then  the  heart  stands  still,  and 
dark  clouds  of  distrust  gather,  and  great  swelling 
words  of  murmuring  are  ready  to  burst  from  doubting 
lips  ;  but  still  the  voice  rings  through  our  ear,  "  thine 
son,  thine  only  son,  Isaac,  offer  him  up  as  I  have 
commanded  thee."  And  we  ask,  "  Wherefore,  Lord  ! 
hast  thou  not  established  thy  covenant  with  Isaac?" 
The  answer  comes  back,  "  Get  up  and  do  as  I  have 
told  thee." 

We  dare  not  disobey  the  voice  of  the  angel  of  the 
Lord,  so  we  hasten  onward  to  do  his  bidding. 

And  as  we  journey  on,  Isaac  looks  up  into  our  face 
and  innocently  says :  "  My  father,  behold  the  fire  and 
the  wood,  but  where  is  a  lamb  for  a  burnt  offering  ?" 
Ah,  does  our  faith  fail  then  ?  and  do  we  murmur, 
"  How  great  this  trial — surely  I  am  above  all  others 
afflicted  and  oppressed  ?  Or  do  we,  with  the  old  patri 
arch's  unflinching  faith,  say,  "  My  son,  God  will  pro 
vide  himself  a  lamb  for  a  burnt-offering  ?"  and  so  go  on 
as  the  Lord  hath  commanded  us  ?  If  so,  how  great 
the  reward ;  for  the  same  voice  that  bade  us  offer  up 
Isaac  says  to  us  in  love,  "  Lay  not  thy  hand  upon,  the 
lad,  neither  do  thou  any  thing  unto  him,  for  now  I 
know  that  thou  fearest  God,  seeing  that  thou  hast  not 
withheld  thy  son,  thine  only  son,  from  me." 

Bunyan  was  an  innocent  man  !  This  he  knew — this 
his  friends  knew — this  his  vile  persecutors  knew  ;  yet 
he  was  kept  in  prison  as  a  convicted  person.  What 
was  his  innocency  to  those  bent  upon  his  ruin? 
Nothing !  He  could  not  submit  to  their  forms  and 
errors — their  prayer-books  and  liturgies ;  his  conscience 
would  not  suffer  him  to  do  it,  and  he  must  be  punished 
— imprisoned !  It  was  a  hard  fate ;  but  God  had  a 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  119 

purpose  in  his  having  to  bear  it.  The  Pilgrim's  Pro 
gress  was  to  be  written,  and  John  Bunyan  had  to  write 
it.  But,  in  order  to  write  it,  he  must  have  the  neces 
sary  preparation  of  mind  and  of  soul.  And  God  saw 
that  Bedford  jail  was  the  place  for  this  preparation. 
He  was  put  there  by  those,  who,  under  the  cloak  of 
religion,  used  every  means  to  persecute  and  destroy 
the  children  of  the  Most  High.  "  God  makes  even  the 
wrath  of  man  to  praise  him."  But  he  also  visits 
destruction  upon  the  evil  ones,  who,  to  subserve  their 
own  purposes  of  ambition  and  hate,  lay  in  wait  for  the 
righteous  man,  that  they  may  ensnare  him. 

Charles  had  been  crowned  April  23d,  1661.  Bun 
yan  was  committed  to  prison  in  November,  1660,  live 
months  after  the  return  of  the  king  from  his  long  exile 
in  France  and  Holland. 

It  was  customary,  at  the  Coronation  of  a  King,  to 
release  certain  prisoners — those  who  had  not  been  con 
victed  of  capital  offense — by  virtue  of  the  Coronation. 
Bunyan  had  hoped,  by  this  means,  to  secure  his  liberty 
until  they  should  pronounce  the  sentence  of  banish 
ment  or  hanging ;  and  then  he  knew  he  would  be 
regarded  as  a  convicted  person,  and  the  only  privilege 
the  coronation  conferred  upon  him  was  a  grant  of 
twelve  months'  time  to  sue  out  a  pardon.  No  sentence 
could  be  executed  until  twelve  months  after  the 
coronation,  and  he  determined  to  use  every  effort  to 
effect  his  release  before  the  expiration  of  that  time. 

The  family  of  Bunyan  had  lived  since  his  imprison 
ment,  amid  trials,  and  hopes,  and  fears.  Twice  had  he 
been  summoned  from  the  jail  to  stand  before  the 
judges.  Each  time  his  Elizabeth  had  hoped  that  he 
would  be  set  at  liberty.  But  each  time  he  had  been 


120  MARY   BTJNYAN. 

remanded  to  jail  with  the  weight  of  the  sentence 
increased.  The  poor  wife's  heart  was  almost  broken. 
Her  health,  left  very  feeble  by  her  unfortunate  sickness, 
had  been  so  worn  upon  by  alternate  hope,  fear,  and 
disappointment,  that  now  her  kind  neighbors  feared 
that  she  could  not  overcome  the  shock.  It  was  a 
touching  sight  to  see  her  go  on,  day  by  day,  with  her 
sad  face  and  failing  form,  to  provide  for  and  support 
her  poor  little  fatherless  children. 

The  neighbors  were  very  kind  to  her  to  supply  such 
wants  as  it  was  in  their  power  to  do  from  their  own 
scanty  stores,  and  speaking,  whenever  opportunity 
offered,  kind  and  sympathizing  words. 

The  children  sometimes  went  to  see  their  father,  to 
carry  him  some  little  token  of  love  and  remembrance ; 
and  sometimes,  too,  the  wife  would  go.  But  the  meet 
ing  with  her  husband,  and  the  sight  of  his  wasting 
form,  and  sunken  eye,  and  of  the  cold,  damp  cell,  so 
touched  her  loving  heart,  that  the  time  of  her  stay  was 
spent  in  tears  and  sobs  ;  and  when  the  parting  came, 
her  grief  was  so  deep  and  heart-rending  that  even  the 
iron-hearted  turnkey  was  moved  to  compassion. 
Under  her  own  individual  sufferings  she  bore  up  with 
a  fortitude  astonishing  to  all,  even  to  those  who  knew 
most  fully  the  strength  of  her  womanly  nature.  But  to 
see  her  husband  wearing  away,  day  by  day,  under 
what  she  knew  to  be  an.  unrighteous  sentence ;  his 
manhood's  strength  wasted  in  a  felon's  cell ;  his  talents, 
which  she  knew  and  appreciated,  buried  within  the 
walls  of  a  loathsome  dungeon — this  wras  more  than  her 
soul  could  endure,  and  she  felt,  amid  her  overwhelm 
ing  sorrow,  that  surely,  surely,  the  Lord  had  forgotten 
to  be  gracious,  and  his  mercy  was  clean  gone  forever. 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  121 

And  when  she  would,  with  bleeding  heart,  sore 
pressed,  find  her  way  from  the  jail  to  her  forsaken 
home,  all  there  seemed  so  dark  and  forbidding,  that  it 
was  days  before  she  could  recover  sufficiently  from  her 
sadness  to  pursue  her  accustomed  duties.  It  was  at 
such  times  as  these  that  Mary  stepped  forth  from  her 
childish  reserve  and  timidity,  and  gave  manifestations 
of  that  judgment  and  determination  of  will  which  in 
after  years  she  so  prominently  displayed,  and  which 
enabled  her,  child  as  she  was,  to  take  her  mother's 
place,  when  that  mother,  oppressed  by  grief  and  worn 
out  by  hope  deferred,  gave  way,  for  the  time,  beneath 
the  weighty  burden. 

Her  gentle  words  of  affection  and  sympathy,  uttered 
in  her  sweet,  mild  voice,  fell  like  healing  balsam  on 
that  mother's  despairing  heart,  and  oftentimes  per 
suaded,  as  it  were,  that  heart  to  lay  aside  its  sorrows 
and  rest  upon  God.  And  then,  too,  in  her  own  blind 
way,  she  would  look  after  the  duties  of  the  house,  and 
take  care  of  Joseph  and  Sarah,  when  it  became  neces 
sary  for  her  mother  to  seek  employment  from  home. 
The  younger '  children  regarded  her  with  reverential 
love.  Her  blindness  threw  a  charm  around  her  and 
an  awe,  so  that  they  respected  while  they  loved. 

Bunyan  had  determined  to  obtain  his  release  from 
jail  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so.  "Whereupon  he 
decided  to  make  himself  heard  at  the  next  Assizes, 
which  were  to  take  place  in  August.  How  to  effect 
this  was  a  question  which  gave  him  much  thought  and 
anxiety.  He  could  not  go  in  person — his  jailer  had  no 
power  to  grant  him  such  liberty — and  he  knew  of  no 
one  who  would  undertake  the  matter  for  him  tliat 

would   be   likely   to   accomplish   his    purpose.        He 

6 


122  MARY   BUNYAN. 

thought  of  Neighbor  Harrow,  and  of  those  brethren 
who  had  befriended  him  at  the  time  of  his  first  trial, 
but  he  feared  to  entrust  his  case  to  their  hands,  lest 
they,  not  understanding  how  to  proceed,  should  defeat 
the  very  aim  of  their  efforts. 

He  at  length  decided,  after  much  prayer  and  reflec 
tion,  to  write  out  a  petition,  and  present  it  by  his  wife 
to  the  judges.  He  sent  for  her  to  come  to  see  him, 
and  opened  the  matter  to  her.  Most  willingly  she 
undertook  the  office  of  advocate  for  him  before  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  kingdom. 

The  Midsummer  Assizes  were  drawing  near.  Bun- 
yan  wrote  out  his  petition,  in  which  he  besought  "  that 
he  might  be  heard,  that  they  would  impartially  take 
his  case  into  consideration."  He  gave  it  to  his  wife 
and  commended  her  to  God.  His  hope  was  bright, 
for  he  felt  that  surely  the  judges  would  not  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  a  wife's  pleadings  for  her  husband.  He 
felt  that  the  hardest  heart  must  melt  at  the  sight  of 
that  delicate  form  and  that  sad,  earnest  face.  His 
Elizabeth  took  the  petition,  and  they  knelt  within  the 
narrow  cell  to  pray  that  God  would  prosper  her  accord 
ing  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  immutable  will. 

o 

As  she  wended  her  way  homeward,  accompanied  by 
little  Joseph,  her  mind  was  busy  with  various  thoughts, 
and  her  heart  agitated  by  conflicting  emotions.  The 
prattle  of  the  child  reached  her  ear,  but  could  not 
distract  her  attention  from  the  one  mighty  consideration 
which  occupied  her  mind.  "Shall  I  be  successful  in 
obtaining  my  husband's  freedom  ?"  was  the  question 
ever  before  her.  Her  soul  sank  within  her  at  the 
thought  of  failure,  but  she  rallied  her  courage  again, 
for  it  could  not  be  possible  that  they  would  refuse  to 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  123 

hear  her ;  and  surely  she  could  convince  them  all  that 
her  husband  was  innocent.  "  But  what  if  her  courage 

O 

shoud  fail  when   she   comes   to   confront   the   august 

O 

assemblage  of  judges.  Then  how  will  it  go  with  her 
cause  ?"  She  cast  the  thought  from  her  ere  it  was 
half  formed.  How  can  she  falter  when  her  husband's 
life  is  at  stake  ?  No,  no;  she  could  face  judges  and 
justices,  kings  and  courtiers — yea,  the  assembled 
world,  to  plead  for  her  innocent  husband. 

Woman's  heart  is  fearless  when  actuated  by  love, 
and  a  consciousness  of  right.  She  rises  from  her 
modest  reserve  and  natural  timidity  to  the  sublime 
heights  of  guardian  and  defender  of  her  heart's  cher 
ished  treasures. 

On  her  return  home  Mrs.  Bunyan  called  at  Neighbor 
Harrow's  to  spend  a  few  moments  in  rest,  and  to  get 
his  advice  as  to  the  best  way  of  proceeding  in  the 
execution  of  her  undertaking.  The  old  man  was  not  at 
home,  having  gone  out  among  the  neighbors  to  see 
what  could  be  done  to  replenish  the  almost  exhausted 
supplies  of  the  destitute  family.  "  God  suffereth  not 
his  children  to  want,"  Mrs.  Bunyan  said  to  herself,  as 
"  Goody  Harrow"  replied  to  her  interrogation  respect 
ing  her  husband,  and  silently  the  tears  of  grateful 
thankfulness  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her 
face. 

"  What  makes  you  cry,  Sister  Bunyan  ?  Don't  it 
fare  so  well  with  you  these  days  ?  You  mustn't  give 
up.  God  is  faithful." 

The  words  which  the  good  old  woman  intended  for 
consolation  only  served  to  call  up  fresh  tears.  The 
fountain  was  full,  ready  to  overflow ;  only  the  touch 
of  one  emotion  to  trouble  the  waters,  and  they  gushed 


MARY   BUNT  AN. 

forth  abundantly.  The  weeping  woman  could  make 
no  answer.  Little  Joseph,  with  childish  wonder  and 
sympathy  clung  closely  to  his  mother. 

"  What  makes  you  cry  so,  Sister  Bunyan,"  said  the 
kind  old  woman  in  her  plain,  blunt  style.  "  Is  Brother 
Bunyan  sick?  or  are  they  going  to  do  any  thing  with 
him  ?  Foil  mustn't  distress  yourself  so.  These  things 
will  all  come  right  after  awhile.  All  the  followers  of 
Jesus  must  have  their  troubles  and  trials  here  below. 
Evil  men  will  torment  and  persecute  them,  and  say 
all  manner  of  evil  against  them.  Didn't  he  tell  us  so  ? 
Didn't  Jesus  say  it?  It  is  our  inheritance  in  the  wild 
erness  world,  Sister  Bunyan,  and  we  have  to  take  it 
whether  we  want  it  or  not.  It's  mighty  hard  to  bear 
it  when  we  know  that  wicked  men  do  wrong  us  so, 
and  that,  too,  under  the  cloak  of  religion.  It's  bad, 
it's  bad,  Sister  Bunyan,  but  we  must  bear  it  like  good 
soldiers.  God  himself  will  bring  it  to  an  end  after  a 
while.  He  won't  suffer  the  wicked  to  go  unpunished  ; 
for  the  wickedness  of  the  wicked  shall  come  to  an  end. 
This  is  what  David,  that  good  old  man,  said,  Sister 
Bunyan,  and  can't  you  believe  it?  Things  were  some 
times  so  dark  around  him  that  he  could  see  no  way 
of  escape,  but  God  always  opened  up  a  way,  and 
he  walked  through  all  his  troubles  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  Lord.  Can't  you  do  like  David,  Sister 
Bunyan  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sore  distressed,  Sister  Harrow,  to  see 
my  husband  wasting  away  in  that  cold,  damp  prison, 
but  I  was  not  crying  for  that.  I  was  thinking  how 
kind  God  is  to  me  and  my  poor  little  ones,  always  to 
provide  something  for  us  to  eat.  He  has  never  left  us 
to  suffer  yet.  He  always  raises  up  some  friend  to  help 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  125 

as  even  in  the  darkest  moment.  It  was  the  thought 
of  his  goodness  that  overcame  me,  and  I  could  not  hide 
my  feelings." 

"  The  seed  of  the  righteous  shall  never  beg  bread, 
Sister  Bunyan.  Don't  David  tell  us  that  ?  and  don't 
he  say,  too,  '  cast  thy  burden  upon  the  Lord  and  he 
shall  sustain  thee,  he  shall  never  suffer  the  righteous  to 
be  moved  ?'  Ah,  I  tell  you,  Sister  Bunyan,  these  have 
been  sweet  words  to  me — like  the  manna  in  the  wild 
erness.  Often,  Sister  Bunyan,  I  have  borne  my  burden 
here  on  this  poor  heart,"  and  as  she  spoke  the  good 
old  woman  placed  her  hand  upon  her  bosom  and  turned 
her  eyes  trustingly  to  heaven,  "  until  I  was  forced 
down  to  the  very  earth.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
couldn't  find  comfort  any  where.  I'd  go  to  preaching, 
and  I'd  talk  to  my  old  man,  and  I'd  study  about  my 
troubles,  but  it  all  didn't  do  any  good — the  trouble 
was  still  here.  And  I'd  go  on,  day  by  day,  bearing 
the  burden.  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  to  ask  Jesus 
to  give  me  his  grace  to  bear  it,  and  when  it  was  his 
will  to  give  peace  to  my  poor  troubled  soul.  And  I 
tell  you,  Sister  Bunyan,  when  the  right  time  came  he 
did  give  me  peace,  yes,  and  joy  too.  He  took  away 
my  heavy  load  and  left  me  as  light  as  a  feather.  Yes, 
Sister  Bunyan,  Jesus  will  do  it  for  us,  but  we  must 
wait  his  own  good  time.  Blessed  Master,  thou  wilt 
not  forget  thy  poor  distressed  servants.  Thou  wilt 
hear  their  cries  and  bring  them  out  of  all  their 
troubles  !  Trust  him,  Sister  Bunyan,  trust  him  !  He 
will  deliver  you  out  of  six  troubles,  and  in  seven  he 
won't  forsake  you.  Hasn't  he  always  been  kind  to 
you !" 

The  weeping  woman  hesitated  to  reply.     She  scarce 


126  MART   BUNYAN. 

knew  how  to  answer.  If  she  looked  at  one  side  of  the 
picture  it  was  very  dark,  but  if  at  the  other  she  could 
see  all  along  her  way  the  hand  of  God  stretched  forth 
towards  her  in  unceasing  love  and  mercy.  The  words 
of  the  good  old  faithful  servant  of  Jesus  had  fallen 
soothingly  upon  her  wounded  soul,  and  she  felt  com 
forted. 

"  I  could  bear  all  my  trials,  Sister  Harrow,"  she 
replied  after  a  pause  in  which  she  partially  subdued 
her  emotion  and  wiped  the  tears  from  her  face,  "if  my 
dear  husband  was  not  dying  in  that  miserable  cell.  I 
could  get  along  with  my  own  trouble  if  I  did  not  know 
that  he  was  suffering.  But  it  almost  breaks  my  heart 
to  see  him  wasting  away  as  he  is,  and  I  do  not  know 
that  he  will  ever  be  released." 

The  poor  wife  was  again  overcome  by  the  thought  of 
her  husband's  sufferings,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  It's  a  mighty  hard  trial,  Sister  Bunyan.  I  know  it 
is,  and  my  heart  feels  for  you.  You  must  bear  it  as 
well  as  you  can.  It  can't  be  helped.  God  has  some 
purpose  in  it.  lie  will  glority  his  own  great  name  in 
Brother  Bunyan's  trials.  I  am  sure  of  that — I  know 
it  is  his  own  work,  and  he  just  suffers  evil  men  to  have 
their  way  for  a  little  time  to  show  his  power,  and  He'll 
cut  them  off  suddenly,  and  that  without  remedy.  You 
needn't  give  yourself  any  trouble  about  the  end  of  all 
these  things.  God  will  make  it  straight  after  awhile. 
All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  go  along  and  do  what's  right 
and  look  to  Jesus.  He'll  work  it  out  in  his  own  good 
time,  and  then  you'll  see  it  is  all  as  clear  as  as  the  shin 
ing  sun.  Just  have  patience  and  trust  to  our  blessed 
Master,  he'll  take  care  of  you  and  it." 

"  But  I  must  do  something  to  try  and  get  ray  hus- 


THE   TRUE    WIFE.  127 

band  out  of  that  dreadful  dungeon.     He  cannot  live  if 
he  stays  there." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  if  you  could  do  anything,  Sister  Bunyan, 
it  would  be  well  enough.  But  what  can  you  do  poor 
woman  ?  They  won't  listen  to  you,  these  men  here  at 
Bedford." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  going  down  to  London, 
Sister  Harrow,  to  see  if  I  cannot  be  heard  there.  My 
husband  has  written  out  this  paper  which  I  have  in  my 
hand.  It  is  his  petition,  and  I  am  going  to  take  it  with 
me  and  get  it  handed  to  the  King  or  the  Lords." 

"  You  going  down  to  London,  Sister  Bunyan  ?"  ex 
claimed  the  old  woman,  almost  rising  from  the  settee  on 
which  she  had  been  seated  during  the  conversation. 
"  You  go  down  to  London  by  yourself  ?  Why,  what 
will  you  do  when  you  get  there  ?  Why,  you'll  be  lost 
I  tell  you  in  that  great  big  city.  They  tell  me  it  is  a 
world  in  itself,  and  you'll  never  find  your  way  to  the 
King  and  the  great  men." 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  do  something,  Sister  Har 
row,  if  I  can  do  any  thing  I  must.  I  cannot  see  my 
husband  suffering  as  he  is  without  making  some  at 
tempt  to  get  him  out  of  that  horrid  place.  My  heart 
is  wrung  to  see  him  pining  in  that  narrow  cell  when  I 
know  he  has  done  nothing  sinful  in  the  eight  of  God 
or  man.  I  can't  understand  it — it's  very  very,  dark." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  London  sure  enough,  Sister 
Bunyan  ?"  asked  the  old  lady  in  surprise.  She  had 
never  in  all  her  life  been  so  far  from  home,  and  the 
idea  of  a  lone  woman  going  way  down  to  London  to 
present  a  petition  for  her  husband's  life  before  the 
King  and  the  Lords,  filled  the  honest  soul  of  the  poor 
old  woman  with  great  consternation,  "  Why,  won't 


128  MART   BTJNYAN. 

you  be  afraid,  Sister  Bunyan  ?"  she  added,  as  she  drew 
her  settee  nearer  the  weeping  woman.  "And  how  will 
you  go  ?" 

"  It  was  to  find  this  out  that  I  carne  by  to  see  Brother 
Harrow.  I  thought  he  could  tell  me.  Mr.  Bunyan 
said  he  would  arrange  the  matter  for  me  and  help  me 
to  get  off." 

"  To  be  sure  he  will,  Sister  Bunyan.  My  good  man 
will  help  you  all  he  can  if  you  must  go.  And  I  think 
you  ought  to  if  you  can  do  any  good.  How  long  be 
fore  you  will  start  ?" 

"  I  must  go  next  week.  The  Assizes  begin  week 
after  next,  and  I  want  to  be  in  time." 

"  And  who  will  go  with  you  to  look  after  you,  Sis 
ter  Bunyan,  and  what  will  you  do  when  you  get  there  ? 
Oh,  me,  it  is  a  great  undertaking  for  yon.  But  it  is 
for  your  good  husband,  and  you  ought  to  do  it.  May 
the  Lord  help  you  on  your  way.  He  can  bring  you 
off  in  safety." 

"Nobody  will  go  with  me,  and  I  don't  know  how  I 
shall  go.  When  I  get  there  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
an  old  friend  of  my  husband,  a  Mr.  Strudwick,  on 
Snow  Hill." 

"  Well,  Sister  Bunyan,  I  hope  you  will  get  your 
wish.  I  pray  that  God  will  go  with  you  and  watch 
over  yon,  and  make  the  King  and  the  great  men  see 
their  wickedness  that  their  hearts  may  be  opened  to 
do  what  is  right.  Poor  sinful  creatures,  how  will  they 
be  able  to  stand  at  the  last  day  ?" 

"The  poor  undone  creatures!  Oh,  'tis  dreadful, 
Sister  Bunyan,  to  think  of  the  everlasting  torments 
they  must  meet." 

"  A  fearful  thing,  Sister  Harrow.    May  the  Lord,  in 


THE  TKUE   WIFE.  129 

his  infinite  mercy,  give  them  repentance  before  they 
die.  They  have  imprisoned  my  husband  and  left  me 
a  widow  and  my  children  fatherless,  and  for  all  this  I 
believe  God  himself  will  punish  them  in  this  world  ; 
but  I  have  to  pray  that  he  will  open  their  eyes  before 
it  is  everlastingly  too  late,  and  give  them  to  repent  the 
wickedness  of  their  hearts  that  they  may  be  saved. 
But  I  must  be  getting  home^  it  is  getting  late  and  the 
children  are  by  themselves.  Tell  your  good  man  I 
would  like  to  see  him  and  get  his  advice." 

"  Yes,  he  will  be  over  to  see  you  to-morrow.  He 
told  me  before  he  went  away  that  he  was  going  to 
your  house  to-morrow  to  carry  you  some  things.  Now 
don't  be  troubled  about  this  thing,  Sister  Bunyan,  it 
will  all  work  together  for  good.  Only  trust  God,  he 
won't  deceive  you.  He'll  make  you  triumph  over  all 
your  enemies,  for  he  is  a  strong  arm,  and  you  know, 
Sister  Banyan,  none  can  hinder  him.  I  hope  God  will 
be  with  you  on  your  way,  and  give  you  sweet  consola 
tion,  and  give  you  strength  to  go  before  the  King  and 
the  great  men,  and  that  he  will  incline  their  hearts  to 
grant  you  your  request.  Keep  in  good  spirits,  Jesus  is 
your  friend.  I  will  come  over  to-morrow  with  my  old 
man,  and  when  you  go  down  to  London  you  must  leave 
the  children  with  me." 

The  afflicted  wife  pressed  the  hand  of  the  kind  old 
woman  in  grateful  assent,  and  departed.  Little  Jo 
seph  clung  closely  to  his  mother.  His  heart  was  tilled 
with  childish  wonder  and  fear.  Tiie  conversation  be 
tween  his  mother  and  Goody  Harrow  had  confused 
and  frightened  him.  He  could  not  unravel  it.  He 
understood  that  his  mother  was  going  to  London,  which 
seemed  to  him  a  most  wonderful  thing,  and  that,  too, 


130  MARY   BUXYAN. 

to  see  tlie  King.  He  could  scarcely  credit  his  own 
ears  when  he  heard  this — his  mother  going  to  see  the 
King,  that  great  man,  whom  his  childish  imagination 
had  pictured  so  far  above  all  other  men,  and  whom 
his  untaught  veneration  had  made  an  object  of  idola 
trous  worship  !  He  could  not  understand  it.  It  was 
something  about  his  father  and  the  jail,  and  what  it  all 
meant  was  beyond  his  comprehension.  So  he  walked 
along  silently  beside  his  mother,  pondering  over  all  he 
had  heard,  and  trying,  with  all  the  reasoning  powers 
of  his  little  mind,  to  overcome  all  the  difficulties  and 
make  the  different  parts  of  the  story  harmonize  with 
each  other.  He  wanted  to  tell  it  to  Sarah  when  he  got 
home,  but  he  wished  first  to  understand  it  well  himself. 
He  longed  to  ask  his  mother  all  about  it,  but,  with  that 
intuition  which  children  oftentimes  possess,  he  saw 
clearly  that  his  mother's  mind  was  deeply  occupied  ;  so 
he  walked  quietly  along,  with  his  thoughtful  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground,  trying  to  solve  his  difficult  problem. 
Suddenly  he  looked  up  into  his  mother's  face  and 
asked : 

"  Mother,  are  you  going  to  see  the  King  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Joseph,  whether  I  shall  see  him  or 
not,"  was  his  mother's  abstracted  reply. 

He  was  again  silent  for  some  moments  more.  But 
he  could  not  satisfy  himself,  and  his  curiosity  must  be 
gratified,  so  he  seized  his  mother's  hand,  as  it  hung 
lifeless  at  her  side,  and  asked  : 

"  Mother,  mother,  will  they  let  father  out  of  that 
cud  dark  dungeon  ?" 

"  Who,  Joseph  ?" 

"  Why  them  big  men  way  down  in  London  that  you 


THE   TJRDE   WIFE.  131 

are  going  to  see.  Will  they  let  father  out  of  jail  ?  I 
do  hope  they  will." 

"  I  cannot  tell  whether  they  will  or  not,  Joseph,"  an 
swered  the  mother,  pursuing  her  train  of  thought. 

"  "Well,  you  are  going  to  ask  them  when  you  go  down 
to  London,  ain't  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  Joseph.  They  had  no  right  to  put  your  father 
in  jail,  and  I  think  they  ought  to  let  him  out  that  he 
may  come  home  to  see  us." 

"  I  think  so  too,  mother.  Father  didn't  do  anything 
bad,  did  he,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  Joseph.  Your  father  did  not  do  anything  to 
be  put  in  prison  for.  Bad  men  put  him  there  without 
a  cause." 

"  But  the  big  men  down  in  London  will  let  him  out 
when  you  ask  them,  won't  they,  mother  ?  and  then 
father  will  come  home  and  stay  with  us  like  he  used 
to  do.  He  won't  preach  any  more  either,  and  then 
they  can't  put  him  in  the  ugly  old  jail  again." 

The  mother  knew  she  could  not  explain  the  causes 
of  doubt  respecting  the  father's  releasement  so  that 
the  child  could  understand,  and  so  she  made  no  answer. 
Joseph's  questions  had  brought  before  her  mind  with 
great  vividness  the  difficulties  of  her  proposed  undertak 
ing.  '  She  pictured  herself  in  the  streets  of  London,  a 
lone,  unprotected  woman,  whose  name  could  have  no  in 
fluence  upon  those  who  heard  it,  except  to  bring  down 
contempt  and  insolence  upon  her  own  head.  If  her 
husband  was  known  at  all,  it  was  as  John  Bunyan,  in 
Bedford  jail,  for  disobedience  to  the  laws  of  the  laud. 
When  she  thought  of  the  judges,  with  their  stern  faces, 
and  the  laughs,  and  jeers,  and  gibes  of  those  who  might 
hear  her  business,  she  shuddered.  And  then,  horrid 


132  MARY    BUNYAN. 

picture  !  there  came  up  to  her  mind  the  refusal  of  her 
petition,  while  the  judges  turned  a  cold  look  upon  her 
and  unfeeling  ones  stood  by  laughing  at  her  anguish 
and  disappointment. 

Her  tears  began  again  to  flow  as  this  most  fearful 
finale  presented  itself  to  her  overtaxed  mind  ;  but  she 
wiped  them  hastily  away,  and  choked  down  her  emo 
tion.  She  was  almost  home,  and  she  did  not  wish  to 
appear  unusually  troubled  before  the  sensitive  child 
whom  she  knew  awaited  her  with  eager,  anxious  heart. 

Alter  the  evening  meal  was  over  the  two  youngest 
children  were  sent  out  to  play,  and  Mrs.  Bunyan  then 
unfolded  to  Mary  the  plan  before  her  and  the  probable 
results  of  the  undertaking. 

"  Oh,  if  dear  father  could  get  out  of  that  frightful 
jail  and  come  home  to  us  once  more,  how  glad  I  would 
be,  mother  ;"  and  the  poor  blind  child  turned  her  dark 
ened  eyes  towards  her  mother  with  such  an  expression 
of  solicitude  on  her  sweet,  sad  face,  as  made  the  moth 
er's  heart  ache. 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  let  him  out,  mother  ?" 

•"  I  cannot  tell  Mary.  God  will  attend  to  that.  I 
must  do  what  is  my  duty  in  the  case,  and  leave  the  re 
sult  with  him.  If  it  is  his  will  he  shall  be  set  at  lib 
erty,  it  will  be  done.  Bnt  if  he  sees  fit  to  keep  your 
father  in  prison,  we  must  try  to  submit,  and  say,  '  Not 
our  will,  but  thine,  oh,  Lord,  be  done  ;' "  and  the  poor 
woman  heaved  a  deep,  long  drawn  sigh,  which  told  to 
Mary's  heart  how  faintly  the  mother  was  able  to  pray 
the  dying  Saviour's  words. 

How  often  we  utter  with  our  lips  truths  which  the 
heart  has  not  yet  been  made  subject  to.  We  desire  to 
feel,  we  pray  to  feel  that  submission  which  our  Jips 


THE  TKUE   WIFE.  133 

utter,  but  "  grace  sufficient"  has  not  yet  been  given, 
and,  while  the  words  flow,  the  heart  beats  in  fearful  ap 
prehension. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  my  child,  how  this  matter  will  end," 
resumed  the  mother  after  a  pause,  "  but  it  is  our  only 
hope,  and  if  God  shall  bless  my  efforts  your  father  will 
be  pardoned.  If  not," — and  she  shook  her  head  des 
pairingly,  as  the  unfinished  sentence  died  on  her  quiv- 
ing  lips. 

While  the  mother  and  Mary  had  been  discussing  the 
matter  on  the  front  stoop,  Joseph,  with  all  the  intensity 
of  his  nature  assisted  by  his  excited  imagination,  had 
been  pouring  into  the  ear  of  little  Sarah  his  wonder 
ful  story  of  his  mother's  intended  journey  to  London. 
The  poor  little  Sarah  caught  her  brother's  enthusiasm, 
and  her  reddened  cheek  and  agitated  manner,  as  she 
earnestly  listened  to  his  strange  words,  fully  betrayed 
the  excitement  and  fear  of  her  little  timid  heart.  And 
when  Thomas  came  home  bringing  up  the  cow,  the 
little  ones  took  him  aside  and  disclosed  to  him  the  won 
derful  tale. 

'Twas  a  night  of  silent  sorrow  in  the  little  home 
stead  at  Elstow.  Burdened  hearts  dared  not  speak 
their  agony,  and,  while  silence  sealed  the  lips,  the 
fountain  swelled  higher  and  higher  its  bitter  waters. 
Oh,  God,  thou  alone  canst  be  a  father  to  these  father 
less  ones,  a  stay  to  their  widowed  mother's  heart.  Speak 
some  word  of  consolation  to  her  soul,  and  protect  the 
children  of  thy  servant.  They  are  in  thy  hand.  Oh, 
lead  them  gently  !  They  are  lambs  of  thy  fold,  let 
not  the  enemy  devour. 

The  mother  knelt  with  her  four  helpless  ones  round 
the  deserted  hearth-stone,  over  which  dark,  deep  shad- 


134  MARY   BUNYAN. 

ows  brooded  !  Shall  these  shadows  ever  be  supplanted 
by  the  light  of  happiness,  or  shall  they  deepen — deep 
en — until  the  darkness  becomes  settled,  rayless  gloom  ? 
God  alone  knows.  The  issues  are  in  his  hands.  He 
worketh,  and  none  can  hinder  ;  he  speaketh,  and  it  is 
done  !  And  as  the  stricken  soul  of  the  desolate  wife 
poured  forth  her  simple,  fervent  petition,  she  realized 
in  all  its  fearful  sublimity  that  God  "  doeth  according 
to  his  will  in  the  army  of  heaven,  and  among  the  in 
habitants  of  the  earth,  and  none  can  stay  his  hand,  or 
say  unto  him,  '  What  doest  thou  ?'  By  faith  having 
through  grace  triumphed  over  the  fear  and  anxiety  of 
time,  she  laid  hold  on  the  promises  of  eternal  life,  and 
was  enabled  to  feed  on  the  hidden  manna  of  God's  own 
precious  word,  realizing  that  he  who  had  called  her  to 
follow  him  would  guide  and  protect  her  the  journey 
through. 

"  Alas,  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell,  or  martyr's  stake 
The  soft  abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make." 

The  next  day,  as  was  promised,  Neighbor  Harrow 
came  to  present  the  little  stores  he  had  gathered  to 
gether  from  the  sympathizing  friends,  and  to  see  about 
preparations  for  the  journey  to  London.  It  was  decided, 
that  Mrs.  Bunyan  should  go  in  a  public  conveyance,  as 
being  the  speediest  and  most  prudent  way  of  traveling. 
She  was  to  leave  on  the  following  Monday,  so  that,  if 
possible,  she  might  return  to  her  little  family  before  the 
Sabbath  day.  The  old  man  guarantied  that  she  should 
be  furnished  with  every  thing  necessary,  and,  as  he 
took  her  by  the  hand  to  bid  her  good-by,  he  recom 
mended  her  to  the  care  and  guidance  of  God. 

The  few  intervening  days  passed  by.     The  wife  made 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  135 

such  arrangement  as  the  circumstances  required  at  her 
hands.  The  mission  was  one  of  fearful  import.  Upon 
its  result  depended  her  weal  or  woe.  She  pondered 
the  matter  well.  Could  she  but  have  seen  her  husband 
once  more  before  leaving,  what  a  consolation  this 
would  have  been,  what  strength  would  it  have  impar 
ted  ?  But  this  was  impossible.  She  had  just  made  him 
a  visit,  and  she  knew  full  well  that  the  jailer  would 
not  admit  her  again  for  weeks  to  come.  There  were 
many  things  respecting  which  She  wished  to  advise 
with  her  husband,  many  points  upon  which  she  needed 
his  instruction.  But  it  was  too  late.  She  must  entrust 
herself  to  God,  and  go  forward  in  the  path  of  duty. 

What  will  not  a  woman  brave  for  the  sake  of  an  inno 
cent  husband  ?  One  that  she  knows  and  feels  is  inno 
cent — stands  clear  in  the  sight  of  God,  however  much, 
bitter,  vile,  persecuting  enemies  may  seek  to  destroy 
him,  and  to  cast  out  his  name  as  evil.  She  will  dare 
the  highest  heights,  and  pierce  the  deepest  depths — 
will  bear  contumely,  reproach,  the  gibes  and  sneers  of 
fiends  in  human  form — will  remain  firm  and  immova 
ble  when  all  else  forsake,  and,  trusting  to  God  and  in 
the  might  of  truth  to  prevail,  will  stand  defender  of 
his  rights  till  life  itself  shall  end.  This  is  wroman's  love. 
This  is  woman's  faith  !  This  is  woman's  courage  ! 

Monday  came.  The  mother  set  out  on  her  journey. 
How  sorrowfully  her  eyes  rested  on  the  dark,  gloomy 
form  of  the  heavy  jail,  as  it  stood  there  in  its  forbidding 
loneliness  on  the  old  bridge.  Her  heart's  treasure  was 
there  sealed  in  from  her  sight  by  heavy  time-stained 
stones  and  massive  bars  of  iron.  The  evil  spirit  of 
persecution  had  torn  him  from  her  bosom.  The  evil 
spirit  of  persecution,  under  the  borrowed  cloak  of  re- 


136  MARY   BUNYAX. 

ligion,  had  placed  him  there,  and  there  kept  him  in 
weary  chains  from  day  to  day  while  his  strength  and 
manhood  wasted  fast  away. 

Her  feelings  as  she  journeyed  on  we  will  not  make 
an  attempt  to  describe.  No  words  of  ours  could  do 
them  justice.  Neither  could  those  who  have  never 
been  called  to  pass  through  the  deep  waters  of  perse 
cution  for  righteousness'  sake  understand  them,  though 
they  were  portrayed  in  characters  of  living  light. 
There  are  certain  bitter  experiences  of  the  heart  which 
no  language  can  speak — a  sorrow  which  no  tongue  can 
describe — it  tills  the  soul,  but  seals  the  lips.  It  wastes 
its  very  life,  but  oh  how  silently  ! 

Owing  to  detentions,  the  journey,  though  only  about 
thirty  miles,  was  not  completed  until  the  next  day. 
About  noon  of  Tuesday  the  great  city  burst  upon  the 
view  of  the  daring  wife.  For  a  moment  she  shud 
dered  with  a  feeling  of  dread  and  wonder  ;  but  it  was 
only  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  for  my  husband  that  I  brave 
all  this,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  I  must  not  falter 
now,  and  what  I  do  must  be  done  quickly." 

She  descends  from  the  diligence,  and,  taking  from 
her  bosom  the  petition  written  by  her  husband,  with 
throbbing  heart  she  wends  her  way  towards  the  House 
of  Lords.  She  prays  as  she  walks  along  that  God  him 
self  will  interfere  for  her,  and  grant  her  success.  On, 
on,  she  bends  her  steps,  inquiring  as  she  goes,  until  at 
last  the  magnificent  building,  wherein  are  assembled 
the  nobility  and  wealth  of  England,  bursts  upon  her  • 
view.  She  stops  suddenly,  overcome  by  a  feeling  of 
fearful  apprehension.  How  shall  she  ever  be  able  to 
make  known  her  desires  ?  "  God  will  open  up  a  way 
for  me,"  she  says  to  herself  as  she  again  moves  on.  "  I 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  137 

go  to  plead  for  his  poor  innocent  persecuted  servant, 
and  he  will  give  me  Strength  according  to  my  trials." 
As  she  was  approaching  the  door  of  the  House  of 
Lords,  a  nobleman,  with  kind,  benignant  face,  per 
ceived  her,  and  thus  accosted  her  : 

"  My  poor  woman,  what  is  your  desire  ?  Have  you 
any  business  to  be  attended  to  ? 

Her  heart  revived  as  she  heard  the  gentle  words 
and  remarked  the  compassionate  expression  of  the  no 
bleman's  face,  and  presenting  to  him  the  petition  which 
she  held  in  her  hand,  she  said  : 

"  I  have  come,  my  lord,  to  see  if  I  can  get  my 
husband's  liberty.  He  has  been  falsely  accused  and 
thrown  into  prison,  and  I  have  come  down  to  the  city 
to  see  if  he  cannot  be  set  free." 

"  And  this  is  your  petition,  is  it,  my  woman  ?  Who 
wrote  it  for  you  ?" 

"  My  husband  himself  did,  my  lord  ;  he  is  a  preacher, 
as  you  will  see  from  that,  and  they  have  thrown  him 
into  prison  because  he  will  not  promise  to  quit 
preaching," 

"  "Well,  well,  we  must  look  into  this  matter.  Come 
along  with  me,  and  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  for 
you  ;"  and  Lord  Barkwood  passed  through  the  door 
way,  followed  by  the  trembling  steps  of  the  faithful 
wife. 

He  motioned  her  to  a  stand,  where  she  remained  in 
fearful  suspense,  while  he  presented  her  petition  to 
various  members  of  the  House,  and  spoke  with  them 
respecting  it. 

"  We  cannot  release  him,"  each  replied.  "The 
matter  must  be  handed  over  to  the  Judges  at  the 
coming  Assizes,  and  they  must  decide  upon  the  case." 


138  MARY   BUNYAN. 

The  kind-hearted  lord  felt  this  was  too  true.  It  was 
not  a  part  of  their  business,  and  they  could  take  no 
action  upon  it,  except  to  commit  it  to  the  Judges, 
which  was  done. 

He  reached  her  as  she  stood  anxiously  watching 
every  movement  and  expression,  and  explained  to  her 
their  inability  to  decide  the  matter. 

She  was  sorely  disappointed,  and  her  whole  frame 
shook  tremulously.  The  Lord  spoke  kindly  to  her. 
"  They  could  not,"  he  said,  "  release  him."  He 
advised  her  how  to  proceed  at  the  coming  Assizes, 
which  were  to  take  place  in  Bedford  the  following 
week,  and,  wishing  her  success,  he  pointed  her  to  the 
door  and  left  her. 

And  thus  all  her  expectations  were  blasted.  The 
House  of  Lords  could  not  give  liberty  to  her  husband, 
and  her  journey  to  London  had  proved  fruitless.  Yet 
there  was  the  shadow  of  hope  left  her.  She  was  not 
altogether  overwhelmed  in  despair.  It  might  be  that 
the  judges  at  the  Assizes  would  hear  her  petition. 
She  would  hasten  to  communicate  this  intelligence 
to  her  husband.  But  how  was  she  to  get  out  of  the 
city?  How  should  she  find  the  diligence  ?  She  met  a 
boy  in  the  street  of  whom  she  inquired.  He  promised 
to  show  her  to  the  place  for  a  shilling.  On  they  went 
through  the  streets,  until  they  reached  an  inn,  which 
was  the  starting-point  of  the  Bedford  mail.  The  dili 
gence  was  waiting  at  the  door.  She  stepped  into  it, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  was  on  her  way  from  the  great 
city,  hurrying  back  to  bear  the  sad  tidings  of  her 
failure  to  her  husband  and  children. 

Bunyan's  was  not  a  heart  to  despair  ;  and  when  he 
heard  from  his  blind  child  the  result  of  his  wife's  visit 


THE   TRUE   WIFE.  139 

to  London,  he  determined  within  himself  to  again 
make  an  effort  through  his  wife  to  obtain  his  liberty. 
He  wrote  out  several  petitions,  which  she  was  to 
present  to  Judge  Hale  and  the  Justices  during  the 
following  week  when  the  Assizes  would  be  in  session 
in  Bedford,  and  sent  them  to  her,  with  all  necessary 
instructions,  by  the  hand  of  his  daughter. 


CHAPTER    X. 

MRS.     BUNYAN     BEFORE     JUDGE     HALE 
AND    THE    JUSTICES. 

IT  is  the  second  day  of  the  Assize  Court.  The 
Audience  Chamber  is  tilled  to  overflowing.  Judge 
Hale,  in  his  robes  magisterial,  sits  in  silent  dignity  to 
receive  petitions  and  hear  the  pleadings  of  the  petition 
ers.  There  is  a  pause  in  the  business  of  the  Assizes, 
and  a  woman,  clad  in  a  coarse  black  dress  with  a  cap 
of  snow  white  shading  her  pale,  sad  face,  rises  from  the 
crowd  at  the  back  of  the  room,  and  passes  up  the  aisle 
with  dignified  but  modest  step.  She  approaches  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  and  presents  a  petition.  Her  hand 
trembles  and  her  cheek  flushies,  yet  she  betrays  no 
farther  emotion,  as  the  Justice  at  the  right  rises,  and, 
receiving  her  petition,  hands  it  to  Judge  Hale,  The 
Judge  reads  it;  remains  silent  for  a  moment,  then, 
turning  very  mildly  upon  her,  he  says  : 

"  My  poor  woman,  I  will  do  the  best  good  for  you 
and  your  husband  that  I  can,  but  I  fear  that  I  can  do 
none." 

He  extends  to  her  her  petition,  telling  her  that  he  will 
look  at  it  again.  Her  heart  throbs  wildly,  her  head 
bows,  tears  gather  in  her  eyes,  and  a  sigh  such  as  only 
the  sorely  disappointed  heart  can  know  escapes  her 

bosom.*    She  stifles  her  emotion  as  well  as  she  can,  but 

(140) 


MRS.    BUNYAN   BEFORE  JUDGE   HALE.  141 

the  scalding  tears  will  fall  blindingly.  An  old  man, 
with  trembling  step,  comes  forward,  holding  in  his 
hand  a  paper.  She  steps  aside,  and  is  lost  amid  the 
crowd. 

A  handsome  equipage  halts  in  front  of  the  Swan 
Chamber.  On  its  luxurious  cushions  reclines  a  judge, 
in  all  the  nonchalance  of  undisturbed  complacency. 
He  knows  nothing  of  the  deep  griefs  that  rend  the 
human  bosom,  and  he  decides  the  weal  or  woe  of 
bursting  hearts  with  as  much  indifference  as  a  judge 
at  a  cattle  show  determines  the  relative  grades  of  the 
sleek  stupid  dumb  brutes.  The  footman  is  in  the  act  of 
opening  the  door,  when  a  pale  woman,  in  the  garb  of 
mourning,  steps  to  the  carriage  and  hands  him  a  paper. 
"With  a  look  of  annoyance  at  being  thus  detained, 
Judge  Twisdon  glances  over  the  petition,  and,  turning 
upon  her  with  angry  look,  "  snaps  her  off,"  telling  her 
that  her  husband  is  a  convicted  person,  and  cannot  be 
released  unless  he  will  promise  to  preach  no  more. 
She  cannot  promise  this  for  him,  so  she  receives  again 
the  petition,  and  turns  away  with  sorrowful  heart, 
while  the  Judge,  with  an  air  of  pompous  pride, 
passes  into  the  hall,  and  seats  himself  in  his  chair  of 
State. 

Is  justice  clean  gone  forever?  Has  the  Lord 
forgotten  righteousness,  that  his  humble  follower 
should  thus  be  turned  aside  to  weep  in  bitter  anguish, 
while  the  heartless  wretch  who  tramples  on  the  rights 
of  bleeding,  suffering  humanity,  steps  on  high,  followed 
by  the  admiring  gaze  of  obsequious  thousands  ?  Wait 
yet  a  little  while  and  see.  The  wicked  shall  be  cut 
off  suddenly,  and  that  without  remedy.  He  shall  not 
live  out  half  his  days.  But  the  righteous  man  shall 


142  MART   BUNYAN. 

flourish,  he  shall  "rejoice  when  he  seeth  the  ven 
geance.  He  shall  wash  his  feet  in  the  blood  of  the 
wicked." 

"  Cast  down  but  not  destroyed,"  the  faithful  wife 
determined  to  make  another  attempt  to  procure  her 
husband's  liberty.  Directing  a  silent,  fervent  prayer 
to  God  for  strength  and  wisdom,  with  faltering  step 
and  trembling  heart  she  again  entered  the  court-room, 
and  presented  her  petition  to  Judge  Hale  as  he  sat 
upon  the  bench.  He  recognized  her  as  the  pale,  sad 
supplicant  of  the  previous  day.  His  heart  was  moved, 
and,  as  he  looked  kindly  upon  her,  and  spoke  a  few 
words  of  encouragement,  her  soul  beat  high  with  hope 
and  gratitude. 

"  God  had  at  last  heard  her  prayer,  and  was  about 
to  answer  her  fervent  requests  in  granting  to  her  the 
liberty  of  her  husband."  Oh,  how  light  seemed  all 
her  previous  troubles  !  They  were  all  swallowed  up  in 
the  joy  of  the  present  moment.  All  she  had  endured, 
all  she  had  suffered,  was  not  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  her  present  happiness.  She  trembled  almost  to 
falling  with  the  intensity  of  her  feelings. 

But  stop  ;  a  Justice  steps  forward  and  speaks  to  the 
Judge.  Her  eager  ear  catches  the  words  : 

"  He  is  a  troublesome  fellow,  your  lordship,  and 
ought  not  to  be  set  at  liberty.  Moreover  he  was 
convicted  in  court,  and  is  a  hot  spirited  fellow  that 
will  do  harm,  and  ought  to  be  kept  in  jail." 

The  Judge  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  upon 
the  floor.  It  was  a  moment  of  heart-rending  suspense 
to  the  unfortunate  wife.  What  could  be  his  decision  ? 
What— oh— what  ? 

He  turned  his  eyes  pityingly  upon  her,  handed  her 


MRS.    BUNYA3?   BEFORE   JUDGE   HA1.E.  143 

her  petition  and  waved  her  from  him.  She  staggered 
to  the  door,  and  passed  ont.  Not  a  word  escaped  her 
lips ;  but  those  words  of  the  Psalmist  were  in  her 
heart ;  "  Why  standest  thou  afar  off,  oh  Lord  \  Why 
hidest  thou  thyself  in  times  of  trouble  ?  The  wicked 
in  his  pride  doth  persecute  the  poor.  Let  them  be 
taken  in  the  devices  they  have  imagined." 

"  They  that  wait  upon  the  Lord  shall  renew  their 
strength  ;  they  shall  mount  up  with  wings  as  eagles  ; 
they  shall  run  and  not  be  weary,  and  they  shall  walk 
and  not  faint."  How  fully  did  the  faithful  wife  realize 
the  truth  of  this  most  glorious  promise  of  the  Lord  God 
of  Israel,  as  with  trembling  step  she  pressed  her  way 
along  the  aisle,  while  eager,  curious  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  her,  to  present,  for  the  third  time,  her  petition 
for  her  husband's  release. 

The  Swan  Chamber  was  crowded — -judges,  justices, 
and  gentry  were  there.  But  she  feared  neither  the 
frown  of  the  one,  nor  the  contemptuous  gaze  of  the 
other.  Unfalteringly  she  walked  the  crowded  room, 
until  she  stood  before  the  Judge  and  justices.  Direct 
ing  herself  to  Judge  Hale,  she  said : 

"  My  lord,  I  make  bold  to  come  again  to  your 
lordship  to  know  what  may  be  done  with  my  hus 
band." 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  as  she  spoke,  and 
eager  ears  bent  forward  from  every  part  of  that  large 
audience  to  catch  her  words.  There  she  stood,  a  poor, 
frail  woman,  pleading  before  the  assembled  dignity  of 
the  realm,  for  the  life  of  her  husband.  Was  ever 
sight  more  sublime — was  ever  a  scene  more  touching  ? 

The  Judge  turned  upon  her.  He  hesitated,  then  an 
swered  in  atone  of  mingled  confusion  and  decision  : 


144  MAKY   BUNYAJST. 

"  "Woman,  I  told  thee  before  I  could  do  thee  no  good. 
They  have  taken  for  a  conviction  what  thy  husband 
spoke  at  the  Sessions,  and,  unless  there  be  something 
done  to  undo  that,  I  can  do  thee  no  good." 

Hear  her  as  she  replies  : 

"  My  lord,  he  is  unlawfully  kept  in  'prison  :  they 
clapped  him  in  prison  before  there  were  any  proclama 
tions  against  the  meetings.  The  indictment  also  is  false. 
Besides,  they  never  asked  him  whether  he  was  guilty 
or  no.  Neither  did  he  confess  the  indictment." 

"  He  was  lawfully  convicted,  woman,"  interfered 
one  of  the  Judges,  chafing  at  her  words. 

She  turned  a  look  upon  him.  He  was  one  whom 
she  did  not  know.  Addressing  Judge  Hale,  she  re 
plied,  with  the  true  courage  of  a  noble  soul : 

"  My  lord,  it  is  false  !  For  when  they  said  to  him 
"  do  you  confess  the  indictment,"  he  said  only  this, 
that  he  had  been  at  several  meetings,  both  where  there 
was  preaching  the  word  and  prayer,  and  that  they  had 
God's  presence  among  them." 

"  What,  woman,  do  you  think  we  can  do  as  we  list  ?" 
interfered  Judge  Twisdon,  in  a  loud,  angry  tone,  look 
ing  upon  her  with  all  the  vengeance  of  his  mean  nature. 
"  Your  husband  is  a  breaker  of  the  peace,  and  is  con 
victed  by  the  law." 

"  Bring  the  statute  book,"  demanded  Judge  Hale, 
"  and  we  will  see  for  ourselves." 

"  He  was  not  lawfully  convicted,  my  lord,"  said  the 
brave  woman  as  she  looked  upon  Judge  Twisdon. 

"•  He  was  lawfully  convicted,"  interrupted  Judge 
Chester,  raving  with  madness  that  his  act  (his  was  one 
of  the  five  red  letter  names  that  sent  Banyan  to  prison) 
and  his  word  should  be  called  in  question. 


MES.    BUNYAN    BEFORE   JUDGE   HALE.  145 

"  It  is  false,"  she  said  calmly,  "  it  was  but  a  word  of 
discourse  that  they  took  for  a  conviction." 

"  It  is  recorded,  woman  ;  it  is  recorded,  I  tell  you," 
vociferated  Chester,  as  if  he  would  silence  her  by  the 
power  of  his  voice  if  he  could  not  by  argument. 

"  It  is  false  if  it  is,"  and  she  looked  him  unflinch 
ingly  in  the  face. 

"  He  is  convicted  and  it  is  recorded"  repeated  Ches 
ter.  "  "What  more  do  you  want  ?" 

"  My  lord,5*  said  the  fearless  wife  to  Judge  Hale,  "  I 
was  a  little  while  since  at  London  to  see  if  I  could  get 
my  husband's  liberty,  and  there  I  spoke  with  my  Lord 
Barkvvood,  one  of  the  House  of  Lords,  to  whom  I  de 
livered  a  petition,  who  toot  it  of  me  and  presented  it 
to  some  of  the  rest  of  the  House  of  Lords,  for  my  hus 
band's  releasement,  who,  when  they  had  seen  it,  they 
said  that  they  could  not  release  him,  but  committed  his 
releasement  to  the  Judges  at  the  next  Assizes.  This 
lie  told  me,  and  now  I  am  come  to  you  to  see  if  any 
thing  can  be  done  in  this  business,  and  you  give  neither 
releasement  or  relief." 

The  Judge  made  no  answer. 

"  He  is  convicted  and  it  is  recorded,"  reiterated  the 
infuriated  Chester. 

"  If  it  be,  it  is  false,"  repeated  the  heroic  woman. 

"  He  is  a  pestilent  fellow,  my  lord.  There  is  not 
such  a  fellow  in  the  country,"  exclaims  Chester  turning 
to  Judge  Hale. 

" "Will  your  husband  leave  off  preaching,  woman? 
If  he  will  do  so,  send  for  him,  and  let  him  answer  here 
for  himself,"  spake  out  Judge  Twisdon,  almost  as  much 
exasperated  as  was  Chester. 

"  My  lord,"  the   Christian    woman   said,    "  my  hus- 

7 


146  MARY    BUNYAN. 

band  dares  not  leave  preaching  as  long  as  he  can 
speak." 

"  See  here,  see  here,"  vociferates  Twisdon,  rising 
from  his  seat,  and  striking  the  bench  with  his  clenched 
fist,  "  why  should  we  talk  any  more  about  such  a  fel 
low  ?  Must  he  do  what  he  lists  f  He  is  a  breaker  of 
the  peace." 

The  brave  woman  noticed  him  not.  Keeping  her 
eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  Judge  Hale,  she  said  : 

"  My  husband  desires  to  live  peaceably  and  to  fol 
low  his  calling,  that  his  family  may  be  maintained. 
Moreover,  my  lord,  I  have  four  small  children  that 
cannot  help  themselves,  and  one  of  them  is  blind,  and 
we  have  nothing  to  live  upon  but  the  charity  of  good 
people." 

The  eyes  of  the  Judge  bent  in  pity  upon  her. 

"  Hast  thou  four  children  ?"  he  said  kindly.  "  Thou 
art  but  a  young  woman  to  have  four  children." 

"  I  am  but  mother-in-law  to  them,  my  lord,  not  hav 
ing  been  married  to  him  yet  two  full  years.  Indeed 
I  was  with  child  when  my  husband  was  first  apprehen 
ded,  but  being  young  and  unaccustomed  to  such  things 
I  being  smayed  at  the  news,  fell  into  labor,  and  so  con 
tinued  for  eight  days,  and  then  was  delivered,  but  my 
child  died." 

"Alas,  poor  woman"  said  the  kind  Judge  as  she  fin 
ished  her  touching  story. 

"  You  make  poverty  your  .cloak,  woman,"  broke  in 
Twisdon,  "  and  I  hear  your  husband  is  better  main 
tained  by  running  up  and  down  a-preaching  than  by 
following  his  calling." 

"  "What  is  his  calling  1"  asked  Judge  Hale  of  her. 


MKS.    BUNYAN   BEFORE   JUDGE   HALE.  147 

"  A  tinker,  my  lord;  a  tinker"  answered  some  one 
standing  by. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  and  because  he  is  a  tinker,  and  a 
poor  man,  he  is  despised  and  cannot  have  justice." 

"  Since  it  is  thus,  my  poor  woman,"  said  the  Judge 
mildly,  "  that  they  have  taken  what  thy  husband  spake 
for  conviction,  thou  must  either  apply  thyself  to  the 
King,  or  sue  out  his  pardon,  or  get  a  writ  of  error." 

At  the  mention  of  a  writ  of  error,  Chester  chafed, 
and  was  highly  offended,  and  exclaimed : 

"  This  man  will  preach,  my  lord,  and  do  what  he 
pleases." 

"  He  preaches  nothing  but  the  word  of  God,"  fear 
lessly  spoke  out  the  true  wife. 

"  He  preach  the  word  of  God,"  repeated  Twisdon 
with  a  bitter  sneer,  turning  towards  her  as  if  he  would 
have  struck  her,  "  he  runs  up  and  down  the  country 
and  does  harm." 

"  JSTo,  my  lord,  it  is  not  so ;  God  hath  owned  him 
and  done  much  good  by  him." 

"  God  !"  repeated  Twisdon  sneeringly,  "  his  doctrine 
is  the  doctrine  of  the  Devil." 

"  My  lord,"  she  said  "  when  the  righteous  Judge 
shall  appear,  it  will  be  known  that  his  doctrine  is  not 
the  doctrine  of  the  devil." 

"  Do  not  mind  her,  Judge,  but  send  her  away,"  ex 
claimed  Twisdon,  seeing  that  he  could  not  intimidate 
her. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  poor  woman,  that  I  can  do  thee  no 
good,"  said  Judge  Hale  compassionately.  "  Thou  must 
do  one  of  these  three  things  aforesaid,  namely,  either 
apply  thyself  to  the  King,  or  sue  out  his  pardon,  or 


148  MABY   BUNYAN. 

get  a  writ  of  error ; — but  a  'writ  of  error  will  be 
cheapest." 

At  the  second  mention  of  a  writ  of  error,  Chester 
was  in  a  great  rage,  and  took  off  his  hat  and  scratched 
his  head  for  anger. 

"  Though  I  was  somewhat  timorous  at  my  first  en 
trance  into  the  Chamber,"  says  Mrs.  Banyan  in  her 
account  of  this  most  wonderful  and  heroic  defence  of 
her  husband,  "  yet  before  I  went  out  I  could  not  but 
break  forth  into  tears,  not  so  much  because  they  were 
so  hard  hearted  against  me  and  my  husband,  but  to 
think  what  a  sad  account  such  poor  creatures  will  have 
to  give  at  the  coming  of  the  Lord,  when  they  shall 
there  answer  for  all  things  whatsoever  they  have  done 
in  the  body,  whether  it  be  good  or  whether  it  be  bad. 

"  So,  when  I  departed  from  them,  the  book  of  stat 
utes  was  brought,  but  what  they  said  of  it  I  know 
nothing  at  all,  neither  did  I  hear  any  more  from  them." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"  HATH  God  forgotten  to  be  merciful  ?  hath  He  in 
anger  shut  up  his  tender  mercies  ?" 

The  prisoner  sat,  his  head  low  bent  upon  his  bosom. 
He  was  struggling  with  great,  weighty  thoughts,  too 
deep  for  him.  He  had  read  the  truths  and  promises 
of  God's  holy  book ;  he  had  meditated  thereon  ;  he  had 
prayed  in  the  burning  words  of  the  forsaken  Son  of 
God — "  Father,  if  it  be  thy  will,  let  this  cup  pass  from 

me," "  yet  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done."  Oh, 

how  he  had  wrestled  with  God  !  With  what  intense, 
consuming  desire,  had  he  groaned  forth  his  agonizing 
supplications.  He  read  of  the  purposes  of  God,  fixed 
and  immutable.  He  doeth  all  things  according  to  the 
counsel  of  his  own  will,  and  none  can  hinder.  And 
his  mind  kept  reaching — reaching — after  the  infinite, 
until  he  found  himself  lost  amid  the  grandeur  and 
sublimity  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Can  man  by  searching  find  out  God  ?"  "  As  the 
heavens  are  higher  than  the  earth,  so  are  my  ways 
higher  than  your  ways,  and  my  thoughts  than  your 
thoughts." 

Mrs.  Bunyan  was  pleading  before  the  Judges  while 
her  husband  was  tlius  communing  with  the  infinite. 

But  the  scene  is  ended,  she  has  been  in  the  presence- 

(149) 


150  MAET   BUNTAN. 

chamber.  Threading  her  way  along  the  streets,  she 
reached  the  bridge,  passed  the  outer  door,  and  stood 
within  the  narrow  enclosure.  Poor  disappointed 
woman.  Her  hair,  escaped  from  the  plain  white  cap, 
fell  loosely  over  her  face,  swollen  with  weeping,  and 
bearing  the  plain,  deep  lines  of  sorrow, — that  sorrow, 
which,  with  cold  iron  hand,  writes  itself  upon  the 
hopeless  heart,  and  traces  itself  in  time-defying  charac 
ters  on  the  despairing  countenance.  Her  form  was 
bent  under  the  burdening  weight  that  crushed  her. 
She  passed  her  hand  slowly  over  her  throbbing  brow, 
as  if  to  wipe  out  the  painful  recollection  of  her  cruel 
repulse.  Her  brain  reeled  ;  her  limbs  trembled.  She 
paused,  and  looked  irresolute  towards  the  narrow  door, 
with  its  heary  iron  gates.  Within  those  dull,  relent 
less  bars,  there  groaned,  unjustly,  him  for  whom  she 
would  brave  aught  of  danger,  bear  aught  of  contumely 
and  reproach  to  aid.  Envy  had  placed  him  there  ; 
cruelty  had  turned  the  heavy  bolt  to  shut  him  in,  and 
injustice,  high  and  glaring  as  the  noon-day,  had  set 
the  seal  to  bolt  and  bar,  to  be  removed — when  ? — ah  ! 
when  ?  And  the  deep,  solemn  chambers  of  her  heart 
echoed  throughout  their  empty  sounding  extent — 
"  when  ?"  "  ah  !  when  ?" 

She  had  stood  before  the  assembled  multitude, 
judges,  justices,  nobility,  and  gentry  ;  and  her  courage 
had  never  forsaken  her.  Prying  looks  had  peered 
with  disgusting  curiosity  into  her  still  calm  face,  but 
her  eye  had  quailed  not  under  their  insulting  gaze. 
Taunts  and  sneers  had  been  heaped  upon  her  as  she 
passed  along  the  aisle  of  that  crowded  court-room,  but 
her  heart,  nerved  by  undying  love  to  her  husband  and 
full  consciousness  of  his  innocence,  had  never  for  a 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  1 5 1 

moment  feared,  neither  had  her  step  faltered.  With 
truth  and  right  shielding  her  as  a  helmet,  what  had 
she  to  fear  ? 

But  her  petition  had  been  disregarded  ;  her  entreat 
ies  set  at  naught ;  her  earnest  supplication  been  made 
the  butt  of  ridicule  and  laughter,  and  while  pride  and 
wickedness  sat  exalted  on  high,  she,  the  worn  and 
sorrowing  wife,  follower  of  the  lone  and  suffering 
Jesus,  had  been  spurned  aside  as  unworthy  of  notice  or 
consideration. 

How  could  she  proceed  ?  How  could  she  tell  her 
husband  that  all  her  endeavors  had  been  abortive  ? 
What  could  she  say  to  him  under  this  grievous  disap 
pointment  that  could  give  consolation?  Her  own 
heart  was  without  a  ray  of  hope.  She  could  see 
nothing  but  darkness  whichever  way  she  turned.  She 
felt  with  David  when  he  said,  "  Reproach  hath  broken 
my  heart,  and  I  am  full  of  heaviness.  And  I  looked 
for  some  to  take  pity,  but  there  was  none ;  and  for 
comforters,  but  I  found  none."  And  she  stood  and 
gazed  wildly  around,  scarce  knowing  what  she  did. 
The  assistant  turnkey,  as  he  threw  wide  open  the 
grating  door,  turned  to  her  and  bade  her  enter.  She 
mechanically  obeyed  his  command. 

She  trod  the  dark  and  narrow  passage  with  unsteady 
step.  What  a  world  of  agony  there  was  pent  up  in 
that  throbbing  heart.  She  paused  a  moment  before 
reaching  the  cell  door  of  her  husband  to  gain 
composure.  She  must  nerve  herself  to  meet  him. 
She  could  not  add  to  the  trials  of  his  heart  by  mani 
festing  her  own.  God  knows  he  had  enough  to  bear — 
a  crushing,  blighting  burden.  She  adjusted  her  hair 
beneath  her  cap,  and  folded  her  neckerchief.  Silently 


MART   BUNYAN. 

she  breathed  a  prayer  for  divine  assistance.  She 
endeavored  to  look  calm,  that  her  appearance  might 
net  break  the  intelligence  of  her  defeat  too  suddenly 
to  him  she  loved. 

The  turnkey  opened  the  narrow  door  to  the  cell  and 
stepped  aside  that  she  might  enter.  The  light  of 
evening  came  in  through  the  small  window  that  over 
looked  the  river,  and  fell  in  sombre  shade  on  the  bare 
walls  and  the  meagre  couch  of  the  prisoner.  In  one 
corner  of  the  cell,  by  the  low  settee,  knelt  Bunyan,  his 
bible  beside  him. 

He  arose,  and  his  eye,  accustomed  to  the  dim  light 
of  his  cell,  took  in  at  a  moment's  glance  the  sad,  pale 
countenance  of  his  wife,  and  in  it  he  read  enough  to  fill 
him  with  apprehension. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  couch.  He  sat  beside 
her. 

For  a  few  moments  not  a  word  was  spoken. 
Thoughts  and  fears  could  not  voice  themselves  in 
words.  The  prisoner  looked  his  wife  steadily  in  the 
face  to  read  the  result  of  her  effort.  He  saw  she  had 
been  unsuccessful,  disappointment  and  grief  had  worn 
themselves  in  upon  that  full  countenance  in  inefface 
able  lines. 

At  length  Bunyan  turned  to  his  wife  and  said  : 

"  I  fear,  my  Elizabeth,  it  has  gone  ill  with  your  plea. 
I  see  it  in  your  face.  My  persecutors  and  they  that 
hate  me  are  set  in  their  hearts  to  ruin  me.  The  Lord 
forgive  them  ;  they  know  not  what  they  do.  But  tell 
me,  why  did  they  refuse  to  hear  you  ?  Tell  me  all, 
Elizabeth,  all." 

The  poor  heart-broken  woman  essayed  to  answer  her 
husband's  question ;  but  all  she  could  answer  was  : 


DISAPPOINTMENT,  153 

"  I  tried,  my  husband,  to  persuade  them  to  send  for 
you,  but  they  would  not." 

"  And  what  did  they  say,  when  you  asked  them  to 
let  me  be  sent  for  ?" 

"  Some  answered  one  thing,  and  some  another.  One 
said  that  you  were  a  pestilent  fellow  ;  another  said  that 
you  were  a  breaker  of  the  peace.  Some  said  that  you 
were  lawfully  convicted,  and  others  that  you  run  up 
and  down  and  do  harm." 

"  And  won't  they  grant  my  release  ?" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  leaning  on 
his  bosom  sobbed  out.  "  The  Lord  is  against  us,  my 
husband,  and  the  rulers'  hearts  are  stone.  They  heeded 
not  my  petition,  but  turned  cruelly  from  me.  They 
will  not  let  you  go.  And  you  must  die  here  in  this 
cold  dark  prison,  away  from  me  and  the  children." 
And  the  despairing  wife  clung  more  closely  to  her 
husband  and  wept  most  sorely. 

Ah,  what  a  sad  defeat  to  the  prisoner.  He  had 
hoped,  had  prayed,  but  there  was  no  longer  any  hope, 
yet  he  could  still  pray,  and  his  full  soul  found  utter 
ance  in  the  following  sublime  petition  : 

"Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling  place  in  all 
generations.  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world, 
even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  thou  art  God. 
Save  me,  oh  God,  for  the  waters  are  come  into  my 
soul.  I  sink  deep  in  mire  where  there  is  no  standing. 
I  am  come  into  deep  waters  where  the  floods  over 
whelm  me.  They  that  hate  me  without  a  cause  are 
more  than  the  hairs  of  mine  head  ;  they  that  would 
destroy  me,  being  mine  enemies  wrongfully,  are 


154:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

mighty.     Draw   nigh   unto   my  soul    and   redeem  it 
Deliver  me,  because  of  mine  enemies." 

"  My  soul  is  among  lions ;  and  I  lie  even  among 
them  that  are  set  on  fire  ;  even  the  sons  of  men  whose 
teeth  are  spears  and  arrows,  and  their  tongue  a  sharp 
sword.  Reproach  hath  broken  my  heart,  and  I  am 
full  of  heaviness  ;  arid  I  looked  for  some  to  take  pity 
and  there  was  none,  and  for  comforters,  but  I  found 
none.  They  gave  me  also  gall  for  meat,  and  to  my 
thirst  they  gave  me  vinegar  to  drink.  But  I  will  cry 
unto  thee,  oh,  God  Most  High,  unto  thee  that  perform- 
eth  all  things  for  me,  and  thou  wilt  send  from  heaven 
and  save  me  from  the  reproach  of  him  that  would  swal 
low  me  up.  Deliver  me,  O  God,  from  the  workers  of  ini 
quity,  and  save  me  from  bloody  men,  for  they  lie  in 
wait  for  my  soul.  The  mighty  are  gathered  against 
me,  but  not  for  my  transgression,  nor  for  my  sin,  oh 
God.  Pour  out  thy  indignation  upon  them,  and  Jet 
thy  wrathful  anger  take  hold  upon  them.  But  I  am 
poor  and  needy  ;  make  haste  unto  me,  O  God ;  thou 
art  my  help  and  my  deliverer.  O  Lord,  make  no  tar 
rying,  but  help  me.  For  my  soul  trusteth  in  thee." 

It  was  a  fervent  petition  that  the  poor  man  uttered 
in  the  hopelessness  of  his  bitter  disappointment. 

"  But  tell  me,  Elizabeth,  did  Judge  Hale  give  you 
no  encouragement  ?  Surely  he  would  not  turn  you 
away  unanswered." 

"  He  said  he  could  do  me  no  good,"  replied  the  still 
sobbing  wife. 

"  And  did  he  say  that  nothing  could  be  done  ?  surely 
there  is  some  resource  left  me.  It  cannot  be  possible 
that  I  must  die  unjustly." 

"  He   told    me  that    one  of  three    things    must    be 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  155 

done,  seeing  that  they  had  taken  for  a  conviction  what 
you  spoke  at  the  sessions." 

"And  what  are  they,  Elizabeth?"  asked  the  prisoner 
eagerly. 

"  Either  that  I  must  apply  myself  to  the  king,  or 
sue  out  your  pardon,  or  get  a  writ  of  error." 

The  prisoner  heaved  a  long,  deep  groan.  For  the 
first  time  lie  realized  that  nothing  could  be  done.  He 
felt  that  death  was  just  before  him.  From  the  inex 
orable  decree,  he  saw  no  way  of  escape.  The  dealings 
of  God  with  him  were  so  mysterious,  so  deep,  that  for 
a  moment  he  was  staggered.  His  expectations  had 
perished ;  his  faith  was  eclipsed,  and  darkness,  thick 
darkness,  was  round  about  him.  He  looked  for  help 
and  there  was  none,  and  he  prayed  for  deliverance, 
but  his  way  remained  hedged  up  about  him. 

God  sometimes  leaves  us,  as  it  were,  to  ourselves,  on 
purpose  to  show  us  how  weak  we  are.  "We  devise  and 
arrange,  and  plan  and  execute  ;  and  we  fondly  imagine 
that  it  will  all  be  fulfilled  according  to  our  earnest 
desires.  Have  we  not  purposed,  and  shall  wre  be  de 
feated  ?  Ah,  no.  And  as  we  stand  gazing,  the  pic 
ture  unfolds  charmingly  before  our  eyes.  Not  one  mar 
or  blemish  anywhere  to  be  seen.  All  is  beautiful  and 
bright  as  heart  could  wish.  Then  we  admire  the  work 
of  our  own  hands,  and  dwell  with  delight  in  the  ac 
complishment  of  our  own  purposes.  And  we  say  to 
ourselves,  now,  surety,  all  will  be  well  with  me,  I  shall 
have  the  full  desire  of  my  eyes.  Then  our  hearts  be 
gin  to  swell  with  pride  ;  and  we  look  and  look,  and, 
looking,  forget  God.  His  name  is  on  our  lips,  and  his 
image  is  in  our  souls  ;  but  we  pronounce  the  one  coldly 
and  the  other  is  shut  out  from  our  view  by  the  super- 


156  MAEY   BTJNYAN. 

structure  of  our  own  hands.  Then  God,  who  is  a  jeal 
ous  God,  comes  suddenly,  and  dashes  out  with  one 
bold  stroke  the  charms  and  fair  proportions  on  which 
we  so  much  delighted  to  dwell,  and  we  hear  his  voice 
thundering  in  our  ears,  "  Have  I  not  said,  '  thoti  shalt 
have  no  other  God  beside  me  T  '  Repent  and  turn 
yourselves  from  your  idols,  and  turn  away  your  faces 
from  all  your  abominations,'  and  worship  me  only." 
Then  we  are  at  our  wits'  ends  ;  and  we  cry  unto  the 
Lord.  And  he  saveth  us  from  all  our  troubles. 

Bunyan  sat  without  speaking.  He  was  stunned  by 
his  wife's  information.  Either  of  the  three  things 
proposed  by  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  seemed  impracti 
cable,  and  lie  felt  to  be  a  doomed  man.  Then  came 
up  before  his  mind  thoughts  of  his  suffering  wife  and 
children,  and  his  little  flock  of  humble  believers 
through  the  country  scattered  for  want  of  a  shepherd, 
the  prey  of  false  teachers,  who  were  endeavoring  to 
deceive  and  destroy,  if  possible  the  very  elect  of  God." 

Oh  !  how  his  soul  was  burdened  in  view  of  these 
things.  He  felt  for  a  moment  that  God  had  withdrawn 
his  presence  from  him,  and  he  was  left  to  himself  to 
grope  his  way  in  darkness  where  there  was  no  light. 

"  And  am  I  to  die  a  death  of  ignominy,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  or  must  I  wear  out  my  days  in  this  narrow  cell  ?  O 
Lord,  my  times  are  in  thy  hands  !  Unto  thee  belong- 
eth  mercy,  that  thon  mayest  be  feared." 

"Tell  me  all  you  have  done,  my  Elizabeth,  that  I 
may  see  if  there  is  any  hope.  Come,  dry  your  tears. 
God  will  reveal  himself  a  helper  in  our  time  of  need," 
he  said  consolingly  to  the  weeping  woman.  "  Let  us 
never  doubt  the  God  of  Israel,  our  God,  Elizabeth,  for 
his  promises  are  sure  and  steadfast,  and  he  will  have 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  157 

mercy  and  not  sacrifice.  His  loving  kindness  endur- 
eth  forever,  and  his  tender  mercies  are  over  all  his 
children." 

Encouraged  by  the  kind  and  confident  tones  of  her 
husband,  Mrs.  Bunyan  suppressed  her  tears,  and  en 
tered  upon  the  recital  of  her  narrative.  The  prisoner 
watched  her  eagerly,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  in 
tense  emotion  as  she  portrayed  to  him  her  repulses  by 
the  Judges,  and  her  mental  sufferings  in  consequence. 

"  And  Chief  Justice  Hale  did  turn  you  away  with 
out  hearing  your  petition  ?" 

"  The  first  time  I  went  to  him  he  told  me  he  would 
do  the  best  good  for  me  and  for  you  he  could  ;  but  he 
feared  he  could  do  none.  I  then  threw  one  of  the  pe 
titions  into  Judge  Twisdon's  carriage,  hoping  he  might 
be  disposed  to  grant  my  request,  and  intercede  with 
the  Lord  Chief  Justice.  But  he  frowned  upon  me, 
and  snapt  me  up,  and  said,  '  you  were  a  convicted  per 
son,  and  could  not  be  set  at  liberty  unless  you  would 
promise  to  preach  no  more/  which  I  knew  you  would 
not  do  ;  so  I  took  back  my  petition,  and  he  did  not  no 
tice  me  any  more.  I  went  a  second  time  to  Judge 
Hale"- 

"  And  what  did  he  do  ?"  anxiously  asked  the  pris 
oner,  intensely  excited  at  his  wife's  touching  recital. 

"  He  read  my  paper,  and  looked  at  me.  Then  one 
of  the  Justices  went  up  to  his  side  and  told  him  you 
were  a  troublesome  fellow,  and  did  not  deserve  to  be 
set  at  liberty.  Moreover,  they  said  you  were  convic 
ted  in  court,  and  was  a  hot-spirited  fellow,  that  would 
do  harm,  and  ought  to  be  kept  in  jail.  After  all  this 
had  been  told  him  he  turned  upon  me  with  pity  in  his 
face,  and  handed  me  back  my  petition,  and  motioned 


158  MAIir   BUNYAN. 

me  away.  I  tliouglit  my  heart  would  break,  ray  hus 
band,  as  I  staggered  out.  But  nobody  cared  for  me." 

"  God  cared  for  you,  my  Elizabeth.  lie  was  watch 
ing  over  you  for  good.  His  hand  is  in  this  thing. 
We  must  wait  until  it  shall  please  him  to  make  crooked 
paths  straight.  I  am  glad  they  did  not  insult  or  ill- 
treat  you." 

"  But  this  is  not  all.  I  was  determined  to  leave  noth 
ing  undone,  my  husband,  to  effect  your  liberty  :  and 
although  I  had  been  twice  repulsed,  I  resolved  to  go 
again  and  see  if  I  could  not  move  the  heart  of  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  in  your  favor.  And  the  next  day 
of  the  Assizes  I  went.  I  prayed  earnestly  to  God  to 
speed  me  on  my  way,  for  I  felt  that  I  could  not  bear 
to  be  again  refused.  I  went  praying,  and  when  I  got 
before  the  Judge,  I  lifted  up  my  heart  in  prayer,  that 
he  would  look  upon  my  petition  with  favor,  and  grant 
my  plea.  And  I  believe  he  would  have  done  so,  but 
Judge  Twisdon  said  you  were  a  troublesome  fellow, 
and  had  been  convicted  and  that  it  was  recorded  against 
you." 

"  The  Lord  help,"  groaned  the  injured  man. 

Tears  started  afresh  to  the  eyes  of  the  disconsolate 
wife.  She  relied  on  the  brave  heart  of  her  husband, 
and  as  long  as  his  courage  remained  undaunted  she 
felt  strengthened.  But  just  as  soon  as  he  gave  way, 
her  fears  and  doubts  prevailed,  and  she  was  ready  to 
give  up  all  in  despair. 

"  Go  on,  my  Elizabeth,  and  tell  me  all,"  he  added 
after  a  minute's  reflection.  "I  would  hear  it  all,  and 
the  Lord  of  grace  give  me  strength  to  bear  it.  Did 
they  give  you  any  other  reason  for  not  putting  me  at 
liberty  ?" 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  159 

"  They  said  you  were  a  breaker  of  the  peace,  and  a 
pestilent  fellow.  Twisdon  said  you  would  run  up  and 
down  the  country  and  do  harm  ;  and  that  your  doc 
trine  was  of  the  devil.  They  called  you  a  tinker,  my  hus 
band,  and  said  you  had  better  be  following  your  call 
ing  than  running  up  and  down  preaching.  I  told  them 
because  you  were  a  tinker  and  a  poor  man  that  you 
were  despised,  and  could  not  have  justice  done  you  ; 
and  that  when  the  Righteous  Judge  shall  appear,  it 
will  then  be  known  that  your  doctrine  is  not  the  doc 
trine  of  the  devil.  I  also  told  them  that  God  had 
owned  you,  and  done  much  good  by  you." 

A  sigh,  long  and  deep,  was  the  prisoner's  only 
reply. 

"  I  tried  to  move  their  hearts.  I  told  them  about 
my  little  children  and  my  poor,  blind  Mary  ;  and  that 
we  have  nothing  to  live  upon  but  the  charity  of  kind 
people.  I  told  them  you  dared  not  to  leave  off 
preaching  while  you  could  speak.  But  Chester  and 
Twisdon  laughed  at  my  words,  and  stirred  up  the 
Chief  Justice  against  me.  If  they  had  kept  silent,  I 
believe  I  should  have  succeeded ;"  and  the  poor 
woman  wept  bitterly  as  she  thought  of  all  the  cruel 
taunting  and  contradiction  she  had  endured  at  the 
hands  of  her  heartless  judges. 

"  Do  not  cry  now,  my  Elizabeth,  it  is  all  over.  The 
Lord  has  directed  it  according  to  his  own  pleasure, 
and  it  will  work  out  for  us  an  exceeding  great  reward 
if  we  trust  in  him  and  remember  his  promises.  '  Ven 
geance  is  mine,  I  will  repay,'  saith  the  Lord.  '  Our 
enemies  shall  be  confounded  and  put  to  shame  ;  and 
all  they  that  persecute  the  children  of  the  Most  High 
God,  shall  be  cut  off  suddenly,  and  that  without 


160  MARY    BUN Y AN. 

remedy.'  Let  us  trust  in  the  God  of  Israel,  who 
brought  his  children  up  out  of  Egypt,  and  led  them 
through  the  wilderness  into  the  promised  land.'  '  He 
poureth  contempt  upon  princes,  and  causeth  them  to 
wander  in  the  wilderness  where  there  is  no  way.  Yet 
setteth  he  the  poor  on  high  from  affliction,  and  maketh 
him  families  like  a  flock.'  We  must  not  forget  that 
he  doeth  all  things  according  to  the  counsel  of  his  own 
will,  and  he  will  accomplish  his  purposes  in  us  and 
through  us.  We  will  not  fear  what  man  can  do  unto 

O 

us,  for  the  very  hairs  of  our  heads  are  numbered,  and 
our  enemies  cannot  go  further  than  God  sees  is  best 
for  us.  Let  us  trust  him  for  all  coming  time,  feeling 
confident  that  our  grace  will  be  sufficient  to  our  day. 
The  more  he  multiplies  our  trials  and  afflictions,  the 
greater  measures  of  his  holy  spirit  will  he  impart  to 
us ;  and  if  we  are  called  to  pass  through  the  fire,  even 
there  we  will  praise  him.  Dry  your  tears,  Elizabeth, 
and  try  to  console  yourself  with  his  promises." 

"  But,  my  husband,  what  will  become  of  me  and  the 
children  if  you  are  taken  from  us  or  left  here  to  die  in 
this  miserable  dungeon  ?  Oh,  we  shall  starve  to 
death  !  There  will  be  nobody  to  care  for  us  when  you 
are  gone.  It  is  so  dreadful  to  think  of,  my  husband. 
Our  poor  blind  Mary  ;  I  am  more  distressed  about  her 
than  any  of  the  rest.  She  is  so  feeble  now,  and  since 
you  have  come  to  this  horrible  jail,  she  looks  so  sad. 
She  is  almost  ready  for  the  grave  herself.  Oh,  it  is  so 
hard,  so  hard  !" 

"  '  I  will  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless  and  the  widow's 
stay.'  I  once  was  young,  and  now  I  am  old,  yet  I 
have  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.  Trust  in  the  Lord,  and  do  good,  and 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  161 

verily  shalt  thou  inherit  the  land,  and  thy  seed  shall 
be  fed.  Oar  poor  dear  blind  one  will  be  taken  care 
of,  my  Elizabeth,  and  none  of  you  shall  want.  I  desire 
to  praise  God  in  my  death  as  well  as  in  my  life,  and 
if  it  is  his  will  that  I  shall  go  to  the  stake,  and  burn 
there  for  the  glory  of  his  cause,  amen,  I  am  in  his 
hands.  Let  him  do  with  me  what  seemeth  to  him 
best.  Pray  for  an  exceeding  abundant  share  of  grace, 
my  poor  wife,  to  help  you  along  on  your  thorny  way. 
Teach  the  children  to  look  to  God  and  to  rely  on  him. 
And  may  our  God  bring  them  all  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth  as  it  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord.  It  is  a  hard 
task,  my  poor  Elizabeth ;  but  God  will  be  with  you  to 
direct  and  support  you,  and  he  can  do  much  more  for 
you  and  our  little  ones  than  I  could.  If  he  takes  me 
from  you  and  them,  he  will  raise  up  some  one  in  my 
stead  to  give  them  food  and  raiment.  Go  on,  then, 
trusting  in  him,  and  do  the  best  you  can.  It  will  all 
be  well  in  the  end.  The  Psalmist  tells  us  that  light  is 
sown  for  the  righteous  and  gladness  for  the  upright  in 
heart,  and  we  will  not  fear  what  man  can  do  unto  us ; 
for  though  the  earth  be  removed,  and  the  mountains 
be  carried  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  yet  will  we  not  fear, 
for  the  Lord  is  our  light  and  our  salvation  ;  the  Lord 
is  the  strength  of  our  life." 

"  But,  it  may  be,"  interposed  the  fond  wife,  "  that 
if  you  would  give  up  preaching  for  a  little  while,  just 
while  these  troublous  times  are  upon  us,  you  could  go 
free,  and  then  after  awhile  you  could  preach  again.  I 
cannot  believe  that  God  is  going  to  chastise  his  children 
always.  He  will  have  mercy,  and  remember  their 
cries  and  tears." 

It  was  a  powerful  appeal.     The  strongman  wavered 


162  MARY    BU2STYAN. 

for  a  moment.  Things  would  soon  change,  and  then 
he  could  preach  again.  Would  it  not  be  best  ?  Would 
it  not  be  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  advancement  of 
his  cause  on  earth  ? 

It  was  a  moment  of  intense  interest.  What  weighty 
consequences  hung  on  the  decision  about  to  be  made. 
"  Take  up  thy  cross,  take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  me," 
"  through  evil  as  well  as  good  report,"  came  thunder 
ing  through  his  conscience,  as  if  it  would  rend  the 
very  foundations  of  his  being.  "  He  that  loveth  his 
life  shall  lose  it."  "  Whosoever  shall  be  ashamed  of 
me,  and  of  my  words,  of  him  shall  the  Son  of  Man  be 
ashamed  when  he  shall  come  in  his  own  glory,  and  in 
his  Father's,  and  of  the  holy  angels,"  followed  upon  the 
heels  of  the  other  dreadful  warning.  "  It  will  be  but 
a  little  while,"  whispered  Satan  :  "  your  poor  wife  and 
children,  what  will  they  do  without  you  ?"  "Every 
one  that  hath  forsaken  wife  or  child  for  my  name's  sake 
shall  receive  an  hundred  fold,  and  shall  inherit  eternal 
life,"  the  Spirit  answered. 

A  heavy  step  was  heard  approaching  the  cell. 

A  moment,  and  the  turnkey  opened  the  door,  and 
told  the  wife  that  she  must  leave.  Throwing  her  arms 
about  her  husband's  neck,  she  bade  him  farewell  'mid 
sobs  and  tears. 

"  God  be  with  you,  my  Elizabeth,  and  take  care  of 
you  and  my  poor  little  ones." 

The  door  close.  The  prisoner  was  alone  with  God. 
He  prayed  for  grace,  for  direction,  for  patience,  and 
strength  to  do  his  Master's  will.  He  was  "  passing 
through  the  valley  of  Baca." 

Could  he  make  t  a  well  ? 


CHAPTEB   XII.      . 

FAITH    TRIUMPHS. 

THE  grief-stricken  wife  passed  the  bridge  and  gained 
the  field.  Her  heart  was  almost  breaking.  Scalding 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  All  hope  was  gone. 
The  world  seemed  to  her  shrouded  in  gloom.  There 
was  no  more  light  nor  pity  for  her  ;  nothing  before  her 
but  darkness  and  despair.  Oh,  that  she  knew  what  to 
do.  ISTo  earthly  adviser,  and  forsaken  by  God  ! 

She  sat  down  by  the  hedge-row,  for  she  could  pro 
ceed  no  farther.  It  was  a  fearful  hour  to  the  anguished 
bosom  of  the  disconsolate  woman.  Those  who  have 
been  sorely  tried  can  sympathize  with  her  in  her  an 
guish.  She  tried  to  pray.  Bewildered  she  could  not. 
Her  head  was  reeling  with  the  intensity  of  her  emo 
tion — her  heart  was  faint  from  its  burden  of  anguish. 
She  arose  and  proceeded  on  her  way.  The  winds  fan 
ned  her  parched  cheek  and  dried  up  her  scalding  tears. 
Her  frame  trembled  as  onward  she  went — onward, — 
onward, — towards  her  forsaken  home  and  her  father 
less  children  crying  for  bread. 

As  she  was  passing  Neighbor  Harrow's  the  good  old 
woman  espied  her,  and,  calling  unto  her,  bade  her 
come  in  and  rest  awhile.  But  she  heeded  her  not. 

"  Go,  David,  and  overtake  Sister  Bunyan,  and   tell 


164:  MART    BUN Y AN. 

her  to  come  in  a  little  while.  Run,  child,  or  you  won't 
catch  her." 

"  Mother  says  come  back,"  said  the  boy  as  he  breath 
lessly  gained  her  side.  "  She  wants  you  to  come  in 
and  rest,  and  tell  her  about  Mr.  Bunyan." 

The  poor  woman  had  no  will  to  resist,  although  she 
knew  the  hour  was  late,  and  her  children  were  all 
alone.  She  turned  round  and  went  towards  the  house. 
Goody  Harrow  met  her  at  the  door,  and  in  kindly  tones 
asked  her  for  her  husband. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  was  all  she  could  reply. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  bearing  a  mighty  burden  here  on 
this  poor  old  heart,  Sister  Bunyan,  for  these  two  or  three 
days.  I  have  felt  that  things  were  mighty  perilous. 
But  we  must  trust  in  God,  Sister  Bunyan.  That's  all 
we  can  do.  I  have  been  down  upon  my  knees 
praying  for  you  and  Bro.  Bunyan  most  all  this  morn 
ing.  My  heart  has  been  sore  pressed.  I  can't  tell 
what  will  come  of  it  all.  I  have  been  thinking  it  all 
over,  and  I  can't  make  much  out  of  it,  but  I  know  God 
is  in  it.  His  hand  is  there  if  we  can't  see  it,  and  in 
his  own  good  time  won't  he  work  it  all  out  so  pretty 
and  so  clear  ?  I  tell  you  he  will.  "We  needn't  fear 
God,  Sister  Bunyan.  He  is  faithful  to  the  end.  I 
have  tried  him  and  I  know  it.  When  my  poor  daugh 
ter  died  I  thought  it  would  have  killed  me.  It  seemed 
to  me  I  could  never  be  comforted.  I  prayed,  and  I 
cried,  and  I  went  to  preaching,  I  did  everything  I 
could  to  get  rid  of  my  grief.  But  I  couldn't  do  it. 
Then  I  began  to  feel  rebellious  against  God.  I  thought 
he  ought  to  give  me  his  Holy  Spirit  to  comfort 
me,  and  I  got  to  be  quite  disconsolate  and  mur 
muring.  And  so  I  went  on  day  by  day,  and  found 


FAITH   TRIUMPHS.  165 

no  peace.  It  appeared  to  me  my  heart  would  break, 
there  was  such  a  weight  upon  it.  I  could  not  tell 
what  to  do  or  what  to  say,  and  I  thought  nobody  had 
trouble  like  to  me.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  it  was  a  dark  way 
and  a  heavy  burden  that  I  bore  here  on  this  heart,  and 
I  believed  I  should  never  in  this  world  get  over  my 
sorrows.  But  after  awhile,  in  his  own  good  time,  Jesus 
did  speak  peace  and  joy  to  my  poor  old  troubled  soul. 
He  took  from  me  my  dear  old  mother  ;  and  just  before 
she  died,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  upon  us,  and 
told  us  she  saw  my  poor  dear  Martha  in  heaven  with 
Jesus  and  the  angels.  She  told  us  she  was  going  up 
to  meet  them  there,  and  we  mustn't  grieve  after  her. 
And  she  died.  It  gave  me  such  joy  to  hear  her  talk 
as  she  did,  that  I  could  not  shed  a  tear,  but  kept  a 
praising  Jesus  for  his  love  and  goodness.  And  I  have 
been  praising  him  ever  since,  to  think  of  his  wonderful 
love  to  me. 

"  I  sometimes  long  to  go  to  heaven,  but  I  must  wait 
patiently  till  my  dear  Saviour  comes.  He'll  send  for 
me  when  he  gets  ready.  My  mansion  is  not  yet 
prepared  for  me.  When  he  gets  it  done,  he'll  send 
his  messenger  for  me.  A  few  more  days  of  toil  and 
tears,  and  then  I  shall  enter  into  everlasting  joy. 
Blessed  Jesus,  what  hast  thou  done  for  this  poor  old 
heart.  My  lips  will  continually  praise  thee  ;"  and  the 
dear  old  woman,  as  was  her  wont,  placed  her  hand  on 
her  breast  and  looked  reverently  up  to  heaven. 

"  Can't  you  trust  God,  Sister  Bunyan  ?  He  has 
never  forsaken  his  children.  Look  at  his  people  of 
old,  how  he  led  them  and  fed  them.  Whenever  they 
wanted  anything,  it  just  came  down  from  heaven. 
He  let  them  have  every  good  thing,  and  in  his  own 


166  MARY  BUNYAN. 

good  time  be  brought  them  into  the  promised  land. 
And  so  be  will  do  with  you,  Sister  Bunyan  ?  Kow, 
can't  you  trust  him  ?" 

"  I  ought  to  trust  him,  Sister  Harrow,  but  the  way 
before  me  is  so  dark,  and  I  can't  expect  God  to  work 
any  miracles  for  me." 

"  Well,  trust  him,  any  how,  Sister  Bunyan.  I  tell 
you  he  won't  fail  you.  This  thing  will  all  come  right 
after  awhile.  You'll  live  to  see  it,  I  expect,  and  if  you 
die,  you'll  know  all  about  it  in  heaven.  God  has 
something  for  your  husband  to  do,  and  Bro.  Bunyan 
will  have  to  do  it.  He  can't  run  round  it,  and  he  can't 
jump  over  it.  It  has  to  be  done,  and  the  more 
willingly  you  submit  to  his  will  the  better  it  will  be  for 
7011." 

"  I  know  what  you  say  is  all  true,  Sister  Harrow, 
and  I  wish  I  could  feel  as  you  do  about  this  thing. 
But  I  can't.     I  can't  see  through  it  at  all.     I  am  blind 
blind !" 

"  The  more  need  you  have  to  rest  on  Jesus,  Sister 
Bunyan.  He  is  our  light  in  darkness,  our  strength  in 
weakness,  and  our  comfort  in  affliction.  He  is  not 
going  to  give  you  a  greater  burden  than  you  can  bear. 
It  may  be  very  heavy ;  it  may  weigh  you  almost  to 
the  very  ground.  You  may  stagger,  and  stumble,  and 
get  almost  down.  But  he  won't  let  you  fall.  "Why, 
what  does  he  say,  Sister  Bunyan  ?  '  He  will  give  his 
angels  charge  concerning  thee,  lest  at  any  time  thou 
dash  thy  foot  against  a  stone,  and  fall.'  You  must  not 
give  out  by  the  way.  His  children  must  endure  to 
the  end.  They  must  fight  like  good  soldiers.  Jesus  is 
the  Captain  of  our  salvation,  and  lie  will  bring  us  off 
conquerors  over  death,  hell,  and  the  grave.  Love  him, 


FAITH   TRIUMPHS.  167 

Sister  Bunyan.  Trust  him,  Sister  Bunyan.  "We  please 
our  blessed  Master  when  we  believe  what  he  has 
commanded  us  to  do.  Bear  up  under  your  burden ; 
look  to  Jesus,  and  he  will  support  and  comfort  you 
under  all  your  trials." 

The  precious  words  of  the  dear  old  woman  fell 
soothingly  on  the  ear  of  the  despairing  wife  and 
mother.  But  she  could  not  be  entirely  consoled. 

"  It  is  all  true  that  you  have  said,  Sister  Harrow, 
and  I  pray  that  God  will  enable  me  to  bear  up  under 
all  my  troubles,  and  to  praise  his  holy  name  for  all  his 
loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy  towards  me.  But  I 
am  sorely  grieved.  I  do  not  know  what  is  before  me. 
And  if" 

"  '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,'  Sister 
Bunyan.  You  can't  make  things  any  better  by 
grieving.  They  will  have  to  come  just  as  God  has 
planned  them." 

"  My  children  will  starve  for  bread  if  they  keep  my 
husband  in  that  horrid  prison.  We  have  nothing 
much  to  eat  now,  and  the  neighbors  are  tired  of  being 
troubled  with  us." 

"  You  do  wrong  to  talk  so,  Sister  Bunyan.  It  was 
only  day  before  yesterday  I  heard  Brother  Laman  say 
that  he  intended  to  send  you  a  good  store  of  things 
soon.  And  he  said,  too,  he  was  glad  God  had  put  it  in 
his  power  to  do  something  for  you.  And  old  Sister 
"Westerby  said  the  same  thing  at  meeting  last  week  ; 
and  so  did  Deacon  Drury,  and  many  others  spoke  in 
the  same  way  about  yon.  They  said  it  was  a  shame 
for  them  to  keep  your  husband  in  prison,  and  let  you 
and  your  little  ones  starve  ;  but  they  would  see  you 
did  not  suffer  for  anything  to  eat  as  long  as  they  had  a 


168  MARY   BUNYAN. 

mouthful  for  themselves.  Don't  you  see  now  that 
God  is  raising  up  friends  for  you  everywhere  ?  You 
and  your  little  ones  will  not  be  left  to  want." 

"  God  is  good,  indeed,  Sister  Harrow,  and  I'll  try  to 
trust  him,-  and  never  again  to  complain.  I  am  a  poor 
unthankful  creature,  always  forgetting  all  the  mercies 
God  has  favored  me  with.  I  must  go  home  now,  and 
when  my  soul  is  bowed  down  within  me,  try  to  feed  on 
these  sure  promises." 

"  Don't  forget,  Sister  Bunyan,"  said  the  good  old 
woman,  as  she  walked  by  the  side  of  the  afflicted  wife, 
"  don't  forget  that  '  God  giveth  liberally,  and  upbraid- 
eth  not.'  '  Ask  ami  ye  shall  receive.'  Ah !  precious  prom 
ises,  my  soul  would  feed  forever  upon  them.  Bro.  Bun 
yan  will  be  set  free  if  it  is  the  will  of  God  ;  but  if  it 
is  not,  you  must  learn  to  submit,  knowing  that  our 
Father  doeth  all  things  well.  I  hope  he  will  comfort 
you  in  your  troubles,  and  give  you  his  holy  spirit  to 
bear  you  up  under  all  your  trials.  I  will  run  over  to 
see  you  to-morrow.  I  hope  you'll  be  better  by  then." 

The  weeping  woman  pressed  her  hand  in  grateful 
acknowledgment.  "  Pray  for  me,  Sister  Harrow," 
was  all  she  could  say. 

"  Yes,  that  I  will,  Sister  Bunyan,  and  my  old  man 
will  pray  for  you,  and  Bro.  Bunyan,  and  the  children 
too  ;  we  will  not  forget  you  when  we  go  to  the  throne 
of  sovereign  grace." 

In  silence  the  troubled  woman  pursued  her  way. 
She  reviewed  as  well  as  she  could  the  whole  ground. 
She  turned  upon  the  past,  she  dwelt  upon  the  present, 
looked  into  the  future.  Endeavored  to  fathom  the 
mysteries  which  seemed  thickening  around  her  path. 
She  was  endeavoring  to  understand  why  it  was  God 


FAITH   TRIUMPHS.  16J) 

was  dealing  so  heavily  with  her  ;  why  his  afflicting 
hand  was  laid  upon  her  rather  than  others  ?  She  re 
volved  the  matter  in  her  own  mind,  and  scanned  it  in 
all  its  phases.  It  was  an  inscrutable  Providence. 
She  would  have  murmured,  but  she  dared  not. 

"  Fear  not ;  stand  still  and  see  the  salvation  of  the 
Lord."  This  command  of  the  leader  of  all  hosts  fell 
upon  her  ear — "  Stand  still."  She  was  convinced  that 
she  had  erred  in  attempting  to  work  out  what  was  not 
in  accordance  with  the  purposes  of  Jehovah.  Her 
business  was  to  "  stand  still,"  not  to  move  to  the  right 
nor  the  left  ;  neither  look  back,  nor  yet  to  try  to  pro 
ceed  !  "  Stand  still"  and  see  the  salvation  of  the  Lord. 
She  prayed  for  grace  to  acquiesce. 

The  little  ones  met  her  in  the  close,  and  asked  many 
questions  about  their  father.  The  blind  child  awaited 
her  at  the  door  with  a  sweet,  sad  look. 

The  scanty  meal  was  ready,  and  the  widow  and  fath 
erless  ones  gathered  around  the  humble  board. 

As  they  sat  there,  they  appeared  forsaken  of  God 
and  neglected  of  man.  A^few  Irish  potatoes,  some 
oat-meal  cakes,  and  a  bowl  of  broth  was  all  they  had 
for  five  hungry  mouths.  The  mother  asked  a  blessing 
on  their  scanty  fare,  and  then  the  two  youngest,  Joseph 
and  Sarah,  commenced  to  ask  questions  about  their 
poor  father,  shut  up  in  the  "  big  old  jail." 

The  evening  passed  on,  and  night  came.  The  wid 
ow's  mite  was  gone.  "  He  will  be  a  father  to  the  fath 
erless,  and  the  widow's  stay,"  repeated  Mrs.  Bunyan 
to  herself,  as  she  looked  at  the  low  fire,  and  thought 
of  the  empty  cupboard  and  remembered  the  coming 
morrow. 

She  gathered  her  children  around  her  and  Mary  re 
ft 


170  MARY   BUNYAN. 

peated,  in  a  sweet,  low,  solemn  voice,  the  ninetieth 
Psalm.  How  replete  with  consolation  fell  the  first 
lines  upon  the  wounded  spirit :  "  Lord,  thou  hast  been 
our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations.  Before  the 
mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst 
formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  froin  everlasting 
to  everlasting,  thou  art  God." 

The  last  words  of  the  sweet  psalm  had  died  away 
from  the  ears  of  the  charmed  listeners.  The  mother 
bowed  with  her  forsaken  ones  to  supplicate  the  bless 
ing  of  the  Most  High  God  upon  them  and  her,  and 
upon  him  who  for  the  gospel's  sake,  lay  languishing  in 
a  dungeon.  Her  simple,  fervent  prayer  was  borne  by 
the  angel  of  the  covenant  to  the  throne  of  God.  The 
Father,  well  pleased,  heard  the  humble  petition.  "  For 
thus  saith  the  high  and  lofty  One  that  inhabiteth  eter 
nity,  whose  name  is  holy,  I  dwell  in  the  high  and  holy 
place  ;  with  him  also  that  is  of  a  contrite  and  humble 
spirit,  to  revive  the  spirit  of  the  humble,  and  to  revive 
the  heart  of  the  contrite  ones." 

Oh,  it  was  a  sublime  sigjjt  to  behold — the  lone  wo 
man  with  her  fatherless  children  bowing  before  the 
throne  of  the  Lord  Jehovah,  to  beseech  his  blessing 
upon  them  !  What  of  earth  is  comparable  to  it !  An 
gels  waited  on  outspread  wings  to  bear  the  requests  up 
to  the  King  of  Kings,  and  he  who  is  ever  touched  with 
a  feeling  of  our  infirmities,  even  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
the  Lamb  slain  for  us  from  before  the  foundation  of 
the  world,  bent  a  pitying  ear  to  the  heart-felt  prayer 
of  his  trusting  child.  "  Father,  forgive  and  bless," 
plead  the  Mediator.  The  Father  heard,  for  his  own 
Son's  sake,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  bore  the  messages  of 
love  and  mercy  to  the  bleeding,  trusting  bosom. 


FAITH   TRIUMPHS.  171 

The  little  family  arose  from  their  knees.  The  good 
night  kisses  were  given ;  and  there  reposed  on  humble 
cots  weary  limbs  and  stilled  hearts,  while  angels  kept 
watch  over  the  abode  of  God's  chosen  ones. 

"  Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind 
is  stayed  on  thee,  because  he  trusteth  in  thee." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE      TWO     PILGRIM  S J  0  U  R  N  E  Y     TO     BEDFORD 

"  MRS.  Gaunt,  do  you  think  they  would  admit  me  to 
the  jail  in  Bedford?" 

"  I  can't  say,  William !  But  why,  my  boy,  do  you 
ask  me  this  question  ?" 

"  Because  I  want  to  go  up  to  see  my  poor  old  father. 
Mother  told  me  when  I  left  home  that  I  must  go  to  see 
him  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  send  her  word  how  he  was 
doing  and  whether  she  could  see  him  if  she  were  to  go 
there.  And  I  must  go.  Maybe  I  may  not  get  in,  but 
I'll  go  anyhow  and  try." 

The  speaker  was  a  tall,  noble-looking  youth  of  eight 
een.  His  handsome  manly  countenance  spoke  forth 
the  high  and  honorable  feelings  of  his  heart,  while  the 
fiery  expression  of  his  clear  blue  eye  told  plainly  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  nature.  His  was  a  face  to  be 
admired, — so  full  of  generosity  and  noble  daring.  Ilis 
dark,  auburn  hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  formed  a 
wavy  outline  to  his  high  jutting  forehead,  and  fell, 
after  the  fashion  of  those  days,  in  rich  luxuriance  over 
his  broad  shoulders.  Habitually  his  mouth  wore  a 
pleasing  smile,  but  whenever  his  mind  was  set  fo  do  a 
thing,  the  smile  gave  way  to  a  compression  of  the  lips, 
expressive  of  a  firmness  of  purpose  not  likely  to  yield 

before  anything  but  impossibility ;  and  then  his  eye 
(172) 


JOUKXEY   TO    BEDFORD.  173 

assumed  a  steady  look  indicative  of  settled  determin 
ation. 

Thus  he  now  appeared  as  he  stood  leaning  against 
the  fire-place  gazing  earnestly  at  the  female  seated  in 
front  of  him.  She  cast  her  eyes  upward  from  the 
Bible  that  rested  on  her  lap  to  the  face  of  the  speaker. 
It  wore  that  expression  of  decision  which  so  peculiarly 
characterized  it.  She  had  known  him  but  a  few 
months,  yet  she  had  long  ago  learned  to  read  the 
thoughts  of  his  mind  and  the  feelings  of  his  soul  in  his 
speaking  countenance.  She  saw  now  that  his  determin 
ation  was  fixed,  and  she  felt  that  any  effort  on  her  part, 
to  dissuade  him  from  the  accomplishment  of  his  pur 
pose,  even  were  she  disposed  to  do  so,  would  be  useless 
entirely.  But  she  had  no  desire  to  do  so.  She  was 
gratified  at  the  expression  of  filial  love  in  her  young 
friend. 

"  Yes,  that  I  will  go,"  he  resumed,  his  lips  compress 
ing  more  tightly,  and  the  steady  expression  of  his  eye 
deepening.  "  I  will  go  to  see  my  poor  dear  old  father. 
God  knows  it  is  a  shameful  thing  for  him  to  lie  wear 
ing  away  in  that  hateful  dungeon  ;  the  poor  old  man 
that  never  in  his  life  harmed  a  living  creature.  It  is  a 
wretched  thing,  Mrs.  Gaunt ;"  and  a  tear  ran  down 
his  flushed  cheek  as  he  thought  of  the  wrong  his 
lather  had  endured  at  the  hands  of  those  who  pro 
fessed  to  be  zealous  for  the  honor  of  the  Most  High 
God. 

"  He  doeth  all  things  after  the  counsel  of  his  own 
will,  William,  and  as  the  mountains  are  round  about 
Jerusalem,  so  is  the  Lord  round  about  his  people.  Do 
you  think  that  your  father  suffers  in  vain  ?  No,  no. 
His  trials,  and  those  of  all  God's  afflicted  children  here 


174  MARY   BUNYAN. 

on  earth  will  redound  to  the  honor  and  glory  of  the  cause 
of  our  blessed  Lord.  He  maketh  the  wrath  of  man  to 
praise  him,  and  the  vile  persecutors  of  his  children 
are  working-  out  his  own  eternal  immutable  purposes  ; 
and  his  poor,  down-trodden  Zion,  which  is  now  the 
prey  of  the  wolves  and  the  devourer,  will  awake, 
and  put  on  her  strength,  and  her  beautiful  gar 
ments,  and  the  waste  places  shall  break  forth  into 
singing,  and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  see  it. 
They  that  rule  over  the  Lord's  heritage,  do  make  his 
people  to  howl  now.  But  it  will  not  always  be  so. 
They  that  afflict  the  righteous  shall  be  blown  like  chaff 
before  the  wind  of  destruction.  They  shall  be  utterly 
consumed  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  for  he  shall 
cut  off  the  spirit  of  princes.  He  is  terrible  to  the  kings 
of  the  earth." 

The  woman  spoke  with  enthusiasm — like  one  ready 
to  seal  her  testimony  with  blood.  And  in  after  years, 
she  proved  that  she  counted  not  her  life  dear,  for  she 
finished  her  course  with  joy  amid  the  flames  kindled 
by  the  hands  of  the  children  of  the  "  Mother  of 
Harlots ;"  attesting  to  the  last  her  belief  in  the  doc 
trines  of  the  scriptures,  and  her  love  for  their  great 
and  glorious  author. 

The  youth  sighed  and  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  What  you  say  may  be  so,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  but  I  cannot 
believe  it.  I  cannot  see  that  what  you  tell  me  can 
ever  come  to  pass.  There  is  no  hope  for  our  poor, 
unhappy  blood-stained  country.  The  heel  of  the 
oppressor  will  trample  her  into  the  dust,  and  she  will 
be  abased  never  to  rise  again." 

"  Say  not  so,  William.  God  hath  spoken  by  the 
mouth  of  his  holy  prophet,  '  that  from  one  new  moon 


JOURNEY    TO   BEDFORD.  175 

to  another,  and  from  one  Sabbath  to  another  shall  all 
flesh  come  to  worship  before  me  !'  '  They  shall  sit, 
every  man,  under  his  vine  and  under  his  fig  tree,  and 
none  shall  make  them  afraid.  The  mouth  of  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  hath  spoken  it,  and  he  cannot  lie.' ': 

"  Oh,  that  that  time  had  come,  Mrs.  Gaunt.  "Would 
that  this  oppression  and  tyranny  throughout  the  land 
might  cease." 

"  In  God's  own  good  time  it  shall,  "William.  Be 
content  in  that  thought." 

"  It  will  be  a  long  time  first,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  I  tell  you. 
Iniquity  abounds  everywhere,  everywhere.  Oh,  it  is 
dreadful! — the  sufferings  which  the  poor  prisoners 
endure  in  the  horrid  jails  and  dungeons.  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  it.  Oh,  that  I  could  but  avenge  their 
wrongs " 


',-v 


"  That  is  a  wicked  desire,  "William.  '  They  that 
take  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword,'  said  Jesus. 
You  must  learn  to  bear  patiently.  God  will  avenge 
his  elect  when  he  seeth  fit.  Leave  it  to  him.  Wait 
and  see  his  glory." 

"  How  can  I  wait,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  when  my  father  is 
rotting  in  prison,  placed  there  by  the  cruelty  of 
deceitful  men  ?  How  can  I  wait  when  my  mother's 
heart  is  breaking  ?  No,  no.  The  blood  leaps  in  my 
veins  when  I  think  of  it.  I  am  driven  to  fury,  and  if 
there  was  any  hope,  I  would  raise  a  war-cry  which 
should  echo  and  re-echo  throughout  this  land.  I  would 
down  with  the  vile  wretches  who  persecute  the  poor, 
and  put  them  to  reproach.  They  ought  to  be  hung  on 
gibbets  and  left  to  sodden  in  the  sun,  and  then  their 
miserable  carcasses  ought  to  be  given  to  ravening 
wolves.  Oh,  that  I  could " 


176  MARY    BUA'YAN. 

"  Hush,  hush,  "William,  God  will  hold  you  accounta 
ble  for  such  words.  You  sin  against  him.  '  Vengeance 
is  mine,  I  will  repay,'  saith  he.  Leave  the  matter  in 
his  hands,  and  trust  him.  He  will  not  deceive.  He 
will  not  lie.  His  words  are  sure  and  steadfast,  and  he 
will  bring  it  all  to  pass  when  he  seeth  the  time  has 
come." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  Bedford  to  see  father,  and  I 
will  get  him  out  of  that  hole  if  I  can.  He  ought  to 
promise  to  quit  preaching,  if  they  will  not  release  him 
on  any  other  condition.  What  is  the  use  of  his  threat 
ening  to  preach,  if  it  only  keeps  him  in  jail.  He  can't 
preach  there,  and  he  had  better  regain  his  liberty  than 
lie  there  wasting  away." 

"  The  curse  of  God  will  rest  upon  you,  William,  if 
you  undertake  such  a  course.  His  children  can  preach 
louder  by  their  suiferings  and  trials,  if  they  bear  them 
with  patience,  than  they  can  in  words.  Be  content  to 
wait  for  the  manifestations  of  the  power  of  God.  He 
could  bring  your  father  out  of  prison  as  he  did  Paul 
and  Silas,  if  he  saw  proper,  but  it  is  his  own  good 
pleasure  that  he  should  stay  there  for  a  season.  Could 
the  enemy  triumph  unless  the  Lord  Jehovah  permitted 
it  ?  No  ;  I  tell  you  the  horse  and  the  rider  should  be 
slain,  and  the  persecutors  should  flee  away  like  chaff 
before  the  strong  wind,  if  the  Lord  of  Israel  saw  fit  to 
smite  them  with  the  breath  of  his  power." 

The  young  man  stood  silent.  The  sublime  truths  of 
God's  word  impressed  his  heart.  He  had  heard  them 
oftentimes  from  the  lips  of  his  father,  as  he  sat  around 
his  fireside,  telling  of  the  dealings  of  God  with  him; 
orv  ^pounded  the  sacred  oracles  to  the  villagers  assem 
bled  in  their  hidden  meetings  ;  but  now  they  fell  with 


JOUKNEY   TO   BEDFOED.  177 

double  weight.  The  Holy  Spirit  was  sending  home  with 
power  to  his  heart  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel  of  Christ. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  see  your  father,  William," 
the  woman  said  after  a  pause  of  a  few  moments.  "  It  is 
a  year  since  I  have  seen  the  faithful  old  man  who, 
through  the  grace  of  God,  was  the  means  of  bringing 
me  to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Christ  Jesus 
my  Lord.  Ah,  that  was  a  blessed  time,  a  time  of 
praise  and  rejoicing,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  her 
self.  "  When  the  Lord  took  my  feet  out  of  an  horrible 
pit,  and  placed  them  on  a  rock,  even  Christ  Jesus,  and 
put  a  new  song  in  my  mouth,  even  praises  to  the.Lamb. 
'  What  shall  I  render  unto  God  for  all  his  mercies 
shown  ?  I  will  take  the  cup  of  salvation  and  call  upon 
the  name  of  the  Lord  ;  yea,  I  will  praise  him  continu 
ally,  for  he  hath  blotted  out  my  transgressions,  and 
washed  me  from  my  iniquity,  and  cleansed  me  from 
my  sin.' 

"  Yes,  William,  I  will  go  with  you.  I  hear  that  Bed 
ford  jail  is  filled  with  witnesses  for  the  truth.  You 
know  that  man  of  God,  John  Bunyan,  is  there.  It 
will  do  my  soul  good  to  listen  to  the  words  of  heav 
enly  wisdom  from  the  mouth  of  such  a  man.  I  will 
go  with  you,  and  we  will  start  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  going  with  me,  Mrs.  Gaunt," 
the  youth  answered  enthusiastically,  "  for  maybe  you 
can  help  me  to  hit  upon  some  plan  for  my  father's  es 
cape,  and" 

"  I  can  do  nothing,  William,  but  what  will  be  right 
before  God  and  honorable  in  the  sight  of  men." 

The  young  man  sighed  deeply.  The  impetuosity  of 
his  nature  could  not  bear  any  opposition  to  his  cher 
ished  hope.  The  thoughts  of  his  poor  old  father's  im- 


178  MARY    BUNYAN. 

prisonment  had  so  preyed  upon  him  night  and  day, 
but  he  had  never  yet  seen  any  feasibility  in  any  plan 
that  had  suggested  itself  to  his  mind.  His  hope  now 
was  in  Mrs.  Gaunt's  superior  wisdom  and  her  influence 
which,  although  but  little,  for  she  was  but  an  obscure 
woman,  would  yet  be  something  if  brought  to  bear  in 
his  favor. 

"  It  will  be  a  long  tiresome  walk  for  you,"  said  Wil 
liam,  as  he  seated  himself  on  the  settee  by  the  side  of 
the  kind  woman. 

"  It  is  only  thirty  miles,  William,  and  maybe  we  can 
get  into  a  wagon  and  ride  part  of  the  way.  I  don't 
fear  the  weariness  of  the  journey  ;  I  am  stout,  and  you 
are  young  and  strong.  I  must  go  now  to  the  jail,  and 
try  to  comfort  the  poor,  distressed  disciples  of  my  Mas 
ter,  who  lie  therein  languishing  for  the  truth.  You 
make  ready  for  your  journey,  for  we  will,  God  willing, 
set  out  early  on  the  morrow." 

"  Be  careful,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  do  not  show  yourself 
too  much  in  your  visits  of  charity.  The  spies  of  the 
Church  are  abroad,  and  they  scent  the  righteous,  even 
from  afar." 

"  My  ways  and  times  are  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord, 
William.  Why  need  I  fear  what  man  can  do  unto 
me?" 

The  good  old  woman  put  on  her  hat,  and  taking  up 
a  basket  of  provisions  set  out  on  her  daily  mission  of 
charity.  She  visited  the  sick,  and  those  that  were  in 
prison.  She  clothed  the  naked  and  fed  the  hungry, 
and  to  the  thirsty  she  gave  drink. 

Long  before  the  sun  gilded  the  turrets  and  spires  of 
the  sin-cursed  city,  the  two  travelers  were  on  their  way. 
It  was  a  cold,  crisp  morning  in  November.  The  sun, 


JOURNEY    TO   BEDFORD.  179 

rising  from  a  bed  of  clouds,  threw  his  mellowed  beams 
over  the  sere  autumnal  landscape.  The  plowman  was 
in  the  field,  turning  over  the  fallow  ground.  And 
fieldfares  and  starlings  followed  on  his  steady  steps,  and 
gathered  the  food  sent  them  by  the  all-bountiful  One. 
While  from  the  hedgerows  by  the  wayside  the  black 
bird  and  song-thrush  warbled  forth  sweet  praises  to 
the  Maker  of  the  glorious  heavens  and  the  glad  earth. 

The  travelers  journeyed  on,  discoursing  on  the  beau 
ties  of  the  day  which  were  springing  up  before  them. 
And  with  thankfulness  did  the  woman  speak  of  the 
goodness  of  God,  whose  love  is  ever  over  his  people, 
and  whose  hand  is  open  to  supply  their  wants.  High 
noon  came,  and  they  sat  themselves  down  by  the  road 
side  and  partook  of  the  provisions  prepared  by  the 
careful'  hand  of  Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  then,  refreshing 
themselves  from  a  spring  by  the  way,  which  sent  a  lit 
tle  rivulet  to  dance  and  sparkle  through  the  copse- 
wood,  they  resumed  their  journey. 

They  were  on  a  noble  mission — sublimer  far  than 
that  of  ambassadors  and  princes,  who  look  only  to 
the  things  that  are  seen.  Yet  the  world  heeded  them 
not.  The  passer-by  saw  in  them  only  two  plain  pedes 
trians,  weary  with  the  toil  of  the  way.  But  the  eye 
of  God  rested  on  the  scene  approvingly,  and  "  Well 
done"  was  the  seal  set  by  the  hand  omnipotent  to  that 
hnmble,  unpretending  mission. 

Wonderful  power  of  the  glorious  gospel  of  the  Son 
of  God  that  invests  the  barefoot  journey  of  the  faith 
ful  disciple  of  Jesus  with  an  interest  and  grandeur  far 
exceeding  the  pomp  and  show  of  earth's  most  illustri 
ous  cavalcades.  Stupendous  love  and  condescension, 
which  looks  down  from  the  throne  of  the  universe  to 


180  MART   BUNYAN. 

support  and  cheer  the  fainting  heart  of  the  weary  and 
worn  pilgrim! 

The  travelers  had  passed  more  than  half  their  jour 
ney.  The  woman's  pace  was  languid  and  slow. 

"  William,"  she  said,  "  I  must  stop  and  rest." 

"  I  see  a  wagon,"  said  he,  "  coming  on  our  steps.  I 
\vill  get  the  driver  to  let  us  ride." 

The  wagon  was  going  several  miles  in  the  direction 
of  Bedford.  The  driver,  a  staid  yeoman,  with  a  big 
heart  and  a  kind  face,  was  glad  to  help  them  on  their 
journey. 

As  they  drove  on,  the  woman  spoke  to  him  of  relig 
ion.  She  soon  learned  that  he  was  a  child  of  God  ; 
and  as  they  rode  along  they  held  sweet  converse.  He 
too  belonged  to  the  persecuted  flock  of  the  despised 
ones,  but  the  hand  of  persecution  had  not  yet  fallen 
on  their  little  band. 

The  shades  of  night  came  on.  They  yet  wanted  five 
miles  of  Bedford.  Because  of  the  woman's  fatigue, 
they  decided  to  stop  at  a  farm  house  by  the  wayside. 
"William  was  eager  to  proceed.  He  felt  no  weariness 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  father.  "  But  if  I  should  get 
there  to-night,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  the  jail  would  be 
shut,  and  I  could  riot  get  in  ;  so  I  will  content  myself 
to  rest  here," 


•AOO 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE      REP  tTL  SE  . 

"  No,  I  tell  you,  you  can't  go  in  1" 

"  And  why  not  ?" 

"  Tlie  prisoners  have  n't  had  their  breakfast,  and  no 
body  can  get  in  so  soon." 

The  answers  were  given  in  a  rough,  harsh  voice,  and 
the  turnkey  bent  a  look  of  scowling  severity  upon  the 
applicants.  He  grasped  tightly  the  ponderous  keys 
which  depended  from  his  leathern  girdle,  and  raising 
his  great,  coarse  hand,  motioned  them  away. 

"  When  can  we  get  in,  tell  us  ?"  asked  the  youth  im 
patiently,  aroused  by  the  insulting  manner  of  the  as 
sistant  jailor.  The  blood  was  in  his  cheek,  the  flash  in 
his  eye,  but  judgment  told  him  to  be  still. 

"  I  don't  know,  sometime  to-day." 

"  We  will  go  away,'  William,"  spoke  the  woman 
soothingly.  She  saw  that  he  was  excited,  and  might 
say  something  that  would  end  seriously.  "  Come,  we 
will  go  now,  and  come  some  other  tine,"  and  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word,  she  turned  from  the  door,  and 
walked  towards  the  end  of  the  bridge.  The  youth 
hesitated  a  moment,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on 
the  turnkey,  who  wavered  beneath  their  gaze.  Then, 
as  if  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he  wheeled,  and 
followed  the  woman. 


182  MARY   BUNYAN. 

"  "We  will  go  to  the  inn,  "William,  and  rest  awhile. 
They  may  let  us  in  when  we  come  again.  God  incline 
their  hearts  to  grant  us  this  favor." 

"  The  wretch  !"  exclaimed  the  aroused  youth,  "  how 
dare  he  refuse  to  let  me  see  my  father  !  It's  tyranny, 
tyranny,  wherever  you  turn.  Oh,  it  is  too  hard  to 
bear.  "When  will  these  things  end !  I  will  be 
revenged !" 

He  spoke  with  the  energy  of  a  man  bent  on  some 
desperate  purpose.  His  frame  trembled  with  the 
intensity  of  his  emotion,  and  the  blood  mounted  higher 
and  higher  on  his  cheek,  until  it  suffused  his  vein- 
marked  temples.  The  lips  were  fearfully  compressed. 

"  William,  "William,"  said  the  woman  reprovingly, 
"  how  can  you  do  this  !  Don't  you  fear  to  sin  against 
God?  He  worketh,  and  none  can  hinder.  See  his 
hand  in  all  this,  and  be  still.  Shall  not  the  man  of 
great  wrath  suffer  punishment  ?  Calm  yourself  and 
sin  not." 

A  deep  groan  was  the  only  reply  he  made,  while  the 
right  hand  involuntarily  clenched.  The  young  man 
felt  that  it  was  foolishness  to  fight  against  the  words  of 
wisdom  ;  but  the  enmity  of  the  heart  was  not  overcome, 
only  the  lips  were  bridled. 

THE     VISIT     TO     THE     JAIL. 

The  mother  mused  as  she  pursued  with  heavy, 
flagging  step,  her  way  across  the  meadow.  Her  soul 
was  burdened  with  a  heavy  weight.  Her  heart  was 
filled  with  fear.  Unfathomable  were  the  dealings  of 
God  with  her.  "When  would  he  reveal  himself  a  God 
of  love  ?  Surely,  his  hand  was  laid  upon  her  in  anger, 


VISIT  TO   TIIE  JAIL.  183 

and  deliverance  would  never  come.  Each  day  that 
dawned  but  added  new  cares  to  her  already  over 
whelming  burden,  and  she  felt  to  strive  against  her 
destiny  was  but  a  foolish  mockery.  Each  day  increased 
the  certainty  of  her  husband's  doom  ;  each  day  brought 
more  and  more  domestic  trouble,  for  the  children  were 
crying  for  bread,  and  their  tattered  garments  and  bare 
feet  now  pinched  by  the  chill  November,  spoke  in 
mute  appeal  to  the  bleeding  tenderness  of  her  stricken 
heart.  She  was  in  a  deep,  dark  valley  ;  mountains  of 
trouble  and  difficulty  reared  themselves  all  around,  so 
that  the  beaming  of  hope  was  forever  shut  out.  No 
flickering  ray  of  light  betokened  the  coming  day.  All 
was  night,  incessant  night,  wherever  she  looked. 

Poor,  desolate  tried  woman.  She  was  indeed 
passing  through  "  deep  waters,"  and  was  ready  to 
perish. 

Such  nights  of  deep,  dark  trial,  who  can  bear  ?  Oh, 
God  !  thou  callest  thy  children  to  pass  through  fiery 
ordeals,  when  all  they  can  utter  is  the  heart's  deep, 
piercing  cry — "  Lord,  have  mercy  !  Lord,  have  mercy  ! 
I  perish,  oh  save !" 

She  pondered  her  condition  as  she  walked  slowly 
along,  while  tears  streamed  down  her  wasted  cheeks. 
Little  Joseph  was  by  her  side  with  his  basket.  There 
had  been  but  a  scant  breakfast  that  morning  in  the 
forsaken  household.  The  father  must  have  something 
from  home,  and  there  was  none  to  spare,  save  the 
offerings-lip  of  self-denial,  prompted  by  love. 

"  I  must  bear  up  and  try  to  be  cheerful  for  his  sake," 
said  the  poor  afflicted  woman  to  herself,  as  the  dark 
mouldy  walls  of  the  old  jail  burst  upon  her  view. 
"  Yea,  for  his  sake  I  would  do  anything ;  bear  any- 


184  MARY   JiU-NiAJS. 

tiling.  He  is  my  all  on  earth.  O  my  God,  deliver 
him  out  of  the  power  of  the  tormentor ;  bid  the  pris 
oner  go  free.  Save  him  !  save  him  from  the  hands  of 
cruel  men,  and  from  them  that  seek  after  h^m  for  his 
hurt."  Her  tears  fell  rapidly. 

"Is  any  little  baby  dead,  mother?"  said  Joseph, 
timidly,  as  he  walked  by  his  mother's  side. 

"  No,  my  little  boy ;  what  made  you  ask  me  that 
question  ?" 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  unwilling  to  give  his 
reason.  Then  looking  up  into  his  mother's  face,  his 
large  blue  eyes  full  of  innocence,  he  replied  : 

"  Because  you  cry  so,  mother,  just  like  you  and  Mary 
did  when  our  little  baby  died." 

The  fountain  of  a  mother's  love  was  stirred,  and  the 
tears  fell  more  bitterly.  Her  Heavenly  Father's  chas- 
tenings  were  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  clasped 
her  hands  in  agony.  Her  soul  was  rent  with  sorrow. 
There  was  no  consolation,  no  hope !  Surely  she  was 
sinking  in  the  deep  mire  where  there  was  no  standing. 
She  had  come  into  deep  waters,  where  the  floods  over 
whelmed  her. 

But  she  looked  to  the  Lord  from  the  midst  of  her 
troubles,  and  in  the  words  of  the  afflicted  king  of 
Israel,  she  cried,  "  Give  ear  to  my  prayer,  O  Lord,  and 
hide  not  thyself  from  my  supplication.  Attend  unto 
me,  and  hear  me.  I  murmur  in  my  complaint  and 
make  a  great  noise.  Because  of  the  voice  of  the 
enemy,  because  of  the  oppression  of  the  wicked ;  for 
they  cast  iniquity  upon  me,  and  in  wrath  they  hate 
me. 

"  My  heart  is  sore  pained  within  me,  and  the  terrors 
of  death  are  fallen  upon  me.  Tearfulness  and  tremb- 


VISIT   TO   THE   JAIL.  186 

ling  are  come  upon  me,  and  horror  hath  overwhelmed 
me. 

'  "  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove,  then  would  I  fly 
away  and  be  at  rest.  I  would  hasten  my  escape  from 
the  windy  storm  and  tempest, 

"  Be  merciful  unto  me,  O  God,  be  merciful  unto  me. 
My  soul  is  among  lions." 

"  For  his  sake,  dearer  to  me  than  life,  I  must  be 
cairn,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  as  the  little  window,  at 
which  she  thought  he  might  be  writing,  became 
visible.  She  quickened  her  dragging  steps,  stilled  the 
fountain  of  her  grief,  wiped  away  the  tears  from  her 
face,  and  tried,  (ah,  how  vainly !)  to  look  cheerful. 

"  We  will  soon  see  father,  Avon't  we,  mother  ?" 
ventured  little  Joseph,  as  he  saw  his  mother's  changed 
appearance. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  \ve  will  soon  see  your  poor  father 
once  more.  It  may  be  for  the  last  time." 

"  Why,  what  are  they  going  to  do  with  father, 
mother  ?  They  won't  kill  him,  will  they  ?"  and  the 
child's  face  assumed  a  look  sad  to  see. 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know,  Joseph,  what  they  will  do  with, 
him.  I  can't  tell." 

The  women  eyed  each  other  closely  as  they  met  at 
the  door  of  the  prison.  It  was  evident  to  each  that 
they  were  on  a  similar  mission.  The  turnkey  seemed 
fretted  by  their  application  for  admission,  and  with 
dark,  vengeful  countenance,  he  stood  fumbling  over 
his  keys,  as  if  undecided  whether  to  grant  them 
entrance. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  said  to  the  other,  "  You  come  to  see  a 
prisoner  ?" 

"  My  husband,"  was  the  reply. 


186  MARY    BUN TAN. 

"  Does  he  suffer  for  the  sake  of  the  Master  ?"  asked 
the  first  speaker. 

"Even  so.  For  preaching  the  gospel  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ." 

She  understood  instantly,  and  replied  with  increased 
animation  : 

"  John  Bunyan,  of  Elstow,  a  glorious  martyr  for  the 
truth  as  it  is  in  "Christ  Jesus  ?" 

"  The  same,"  and  Mrs.  Bunyan  gazed  on  her  with 
surprise. 

The  heavy  grating  door  flew  open.  The  applicants 
were  admitted  into  the  narrow  court.  The  prisoners, 
some  of  them,  were  out  for  morning  exercise,  if  the 
walking  about  in  a  miserable  court-yard,  fourteen  feet 
wide,  and  but  little  more  than  that  in  length,  could  be 
called  exercise. 

William  looked  eagerly  around  on  the  faces  nearest 
him,  but  he  saw  not  his  father.  "  I  may  be  mistaken," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  My  father  may  be  so  changed." 
He  viewed  their  faces  a  second  time  more  minutely. 
Shaking  his  head,  he  stepped  on  a  little  farther.  His 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  noise  as  of  a  woman  weep 
ing  in  the  farther  end  of  the  court.  He  paused  and 
looked.  It  was  the  woman  he  had  met  at  the  outer 
door,  leaning  on  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  prisoners.  A 
man  was  standing  near  them,  an  old,  graj^-headed 
man.  He  looked  again.  It  was  his  father,  A 
moment  more  and  they  were  locked  in  each  other's 
arms.  Tears  of  joy  streamed  down  the  pallid  cheek  of 
the  old  man,  and  sobs  burst  from  the  heaving  breast 
of  the  son. 

"  My  son,  my  son,  my  "William  !  Thank  God,  I  see 
you  once  more,  my  boy !"  and  the  old  man  strained 


VISIT   TO   THE  JAIL.  187 

him  to  his  heart.     "  And  your  mother,  William,  and 
rny  dear  Nancy — when  did  you  hear  from  them  ?" 

"  Well,  father,1'  was  all  the  son  could  say. 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
gazing  on  the  son  with  delight. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Father  Dormer  ?" 

The  old  man  wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes  with,  the 
back  of  his  hand,  and  gazed  upon  the  new  speaker. 
After  a  long  look,  he  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  USTo,  my  good  woman,  I  never  saw  you  before." 

"  God  made  you  the  means  of  turning  me  from  my 
sins.  You  baptized  me." 

The  old  man's  face  brightened.  "  One  seal  to  my 
ministry,"  whispered  the  old  man  to  himself. 

"  You  know  me  now  !"  the  woman  exclaimed,  as  she 
saw  the  old  man's  face  light  up. 

The  man  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  am  old  now,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "  and  my 
eyes  are  dim,  and  my  mind  is  frail.  The  names  and 
faces  of  my  youth  have  passed  from  me,  and  I  cannot 
bring  them  back." 

"  Elizabeth  Shirley,  Father  Dormer,  you  remember 
her?" 

"  My  Cousin  Henry's  child  2" 
«  Yes." 

"  I  know  you.  now,  my  child,"  he  said  and  he  threw 
his  arms  around  her  and  wept  afresh. 
-  "  The  Lord  is  merciful  to  me  in  sending  you  and  my 
boy  to  see  me.  I  had  never  hoped  to  see  again  on 
earth  the  faces  of  those  I  have  known  and  loved.  My 
race  is  almost  run,  my  daughter  ;  a  few  days,  and  my 
Master  will  send  for  me  to  go  up,  up"  he  exclaimed, 
turning  his  eyes  heavenward,  "  to  the  mansion  he  is 


188  MART   BUNYAN. 

preparing  for  me.  No  prisons  there ;  no  weeping 
there ;  no  suffering  there.  Friends  will  never  more 
be  parted.  The  husband  shall  not  be  torn  from  the 
wife,  nor  the  father  from  the  children.  The  hand  of 
the  violent  man  shall  no  longer  oppress,  and  the  perse 
cutor  shall  not  destroy.  And  I  will  soon  be  there,  my 
child.  My  sinning  will  be  done,  my  weeping  will  be 
done.  I  shall  be  forever  at  rest.  Oh,  that  we  may  all 
meet  there  at  last — our  troubles  all  ended." 

The  old  man  sank  to  the  ground.  The  little  party- 
gathered  around  him. 

"  This  is  our  brother  in  the  Lord,  John  Banyan,  and 
his  wife,"  said  the  old  man.  "  We  are  all  £hildren  of 
the  Most  High  God,  and  we  are  journeying  'on  amid 
our  trials  and  besetments  towards  the  celestial  city, 
whose  builder  and  maker  is  God.  How  is  it  with  thee, 
my  son  ?  Has  God  begun  a  new  work  in  your  poor 
heart,  my  dear  William  ?  Have  you.  laid  down  your 
arms  of  rebellion  against  the  King  of  Kings,  and 
become  submissive  to  the  peaceful  reign  of  the  Prince 
Immanuel  ?  My  poor  child,  have  you  turned  to 
God?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"May  the  Lord  quicken  you  by  his  Holy  Spirit,  and 
create  within  you  a  clean  heart,  my  boy." 

"  Amen  !  Amen  !  Amen  !"  repeated  the  little  com 
pany. 

And  shall  not  the  prayer  of  faith  be  answered  ? 

"  We  pass  through  tribulation  and  sore  vexation  in 
this  world,  sister,"  said  Bunyan,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Gaunt. 

"  Yes,  Brother  Bunyan ;  bnt  the  grace  of  God  will 


VISIT   TO   THE   JAIL.  189 

bring  his  children  off  conquerors  over  the  flesh,  the 
world,  and  the  devil,"  she  answered. 

"  His  grace  is  all-sufficient,  my  sister,  and  we  should 
ever  be  ready  to  say  with  the  apostle  Paul,  '  J  am  now 
ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  time  of  my  departure  is  at 
hand.  I  have  fought  a  good  fight ;  I  have  finished  my 
course ;  I  have  kept  the  faith.  Henceforth  there  is 
hud  up  for  me  a  crown  of  righteousness,  which  the 
Lord,  the  Righteous  Judge,  shall  give  me  at  that  day ; 
and  not  to  me  only,  but  unto  all  them,  also,  that  love 
his  appearing.'  These  are  perilous  times,  and  we 
cannot  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  The  hand  of 
the  Lord  is  stretched  abroad  over  the  earth,  and  his 
anger  is  kindled  against  the  sons  of  men.  He  hath 
laid  the  vine  waste,  and  barked  the  fig-tree ;  he  hath 
made  it  clean  bare,  and  cast  it  away.  The  branches 
thereof  are  made  white." 

''  But  he  will  cause  the  waste  cities  to  be  built  up, 
Bro.  Bunyan.  He  will  plant  again  the  vineyard,  and 
the  fig-tree  shall  blossom.  For  yet  a  little  while  and 
his  anger  shall  be  overpast,  and  the  Lord  will  come 
again  to  visit  Zion,  and  to  execute  judgment  on  her 
persecutors." 

"  Her  persecutors  are  as  ravening  wolves,  my  sister, 
as  howling  beasts  of  prey ;  they  tear  and  rend  her  in 
pieces  ;  they  scourge  and  devour  her." 

"  Zion  mourneth,  I  know,  my  brother,  because  of  her 
enemies.  But  they  shall  lick  the  dust  like  a  serpent ; 
they  shall  move  out  of  their  hills  like  worms  of  the 
earth ;  they  shall  lay  their  hand  upon  their  mouth  ; 
their  ears  shall  be  deaf.  Neither  their  silver  nor  their 
gold  shall  be  able  to  deliver  them  in  the  day  of  the 
Lord's  wrath  ;  but  the  whole  land  shall  be  devoured 


190  MARY   BUNYAN. 

by  the  fire  of  his  jealousy ;  for  he  shall  make  even  a 
speedy  riddance  of  all  them  that  dwell  in  the  land. 
For  God  is  a  jealous  God,  and  the  Lord  avengeth,  and  is 
furious.  The  Lord  will  take  vengeance  on  his  adver 
saries,  and  he  reserveth  wrath  for  his  enemies." 

"  The  words  of  Elizabeth  are  true,  Brother  Bunyan," 
added  the  old  man.  "  What  doth  the  prophet  Hab- 
bakkuk  say  ? — '  Art  thou  not  from  everlasting,  oh  Lord 
my  God,  my  Holy  One  ?'  We  shall  not  die.  O  Lord, 
thou  hast  ordained  them  for  judgment  ;  and  O  mighty 
God,  thou  hast  established  them  for  correction.  Thou 
art  of  purer  eyes  than  to  behold  evil,  and  canst  not 
look  on  iniquity  ;'  and  the  cry  shall  go  forth,  '  Howl, 
ye  inhabitants  of  Maktesh,  for  all  the  merchant  peo 
ple  are  cut  down  ;  all  they  that  bear  silver  are  cut  ofi';' 
and  then  shall  his  people  hear  the  glad  shout,  '  Sing, 

0  daughter  of  Zion,  shout,  O  Israel  !  be  glad,  and  re 
joice  with  all  the  heart,  O  daughter  of  Jerusalem  !  for 
the  Lord  hath  taken  away  thy  judgments  ;  he  hath  cast 
out  thine  enemy.  The  King  of  Israel,  even  the  Lord,  is 
in  the  midst  of  thee  ;  thou  shalt  not  see  evil  any  more. 
For  the  Lord  thy  God  in  the  midst  of  thee,  is  mighty. 
He  will  save,  he  will  rejoice  over  the  with  joy ;  he  will 
rest  in  his  love  ;  he  will  rejoice  over  thee  with  singing. 
Behold  at  that  time  I  will  undo  all  that  afflict  thee  ; 
and  I  will  save  her  that  halteth,  and  gather  her  that 
was  driven  out.     And  I  will  get  them  praise  and  fame 
in  every  land  where  they  have  been  put  to  shame.  For 

1  will  make  you  a  name  and  a  praise  among  all  people 
of  the  earth  when  I  turn  back  your  captivity   before 
your  eyes,  saith  the  Lord.'     The  Lord  God  hath  spoken 
this  through  his  Holy  Spirit,  my  brother,  and  his  word 
shall  stand  fast." 


VISIT   TO   THE   JAIL.  191 

"  Yea,  and  forever,"  replied  Bunyan.  "  May  God 
give  us  strength  to  bear  our  afflictions,  and  patience  to 
await  Ins  corning." 

Bunyan  and  his  wife  arose  and  repaired  to  his  cell. 
She  had  something  to  say  to  him  which  she  wished  no 
stranger  to  hear.  Little  Joseph  followed  with  his  bas 
ket  of  provision.  The  old  man,  William,  and  Mrs. 
Gaunt  were  left  alone. 

"  When  William  talked  of  coining  to  see  you,  Father 
Dormer,  I  felt  that  I  must  come  too.  I  have  nothing  to 
do  now  but  go  about  and  attend  to  the  children  of  my 
Master." 

"  Are  you  not  married,  child  ?" 

"  I  was  married,  soon  after  I  went  down  to  London 
to  work,  to  John  Gaunt,  a  godly  man,  and  I  lived  with 
him  three  of  the  happiest  years  I  shall  ever  see  in  this 
life  ;  but  God  took  him  to  himself  and  left  me  alone 
in  this  world  childless  and  friendless,  and  since  his 
death  I  have  given  my  time,  and  much  of  my  little 
store,  to  clothe  the  naked,  and  feed  the  hungry  of 
my  Father's  children." 

"  A  blessed  work,  my  daughter,"  replied  the  old  man 
as  he  sat  gazing  upon  the  changed  features  of  one  who 
had  often  gathered  with  his  children,  now  in  heaven, 
around  the  frugal  board,  and  sported  with  them 
through  the  meado\vs.  '  Whosoever  shall  give  to  drink 
unto  one  of  these  little  ones  a  cup  of  cold  water  only, 
in  the  name  of  a  disciple,  verily  I  say  unto  you  he 
shall  in  no  wise  lose  his  reward.'  These,  my  child, 
are  the  words  of  our  blessed  Lord  and  Master,  who 
shall  reward  us  at  the  last  day  according  to  the  deeds 
done  in  the  body." 

"  How  did  you  fall  in  with  my  poor  William,  Eliza- 


192  MARY   BUNYAN. 

beth  ?"  lie  added,  looking  with  a  fond  father's  love 
upon  his  son  who  sat  listening  intently  to  every  word. 

"  I  met  William  in  the  street  one  day  as  I  was  go 
ing  from  one  of  the  jails  to  my  humble  home.  He 
asked  me  if  I  could  tell  him  of  any  one  that  could 
give  him  work.  His  manner  and  voice  seemed  so  like 
something  I  had  known  long  years  gone  by,  I  asked 
him  who  he  was. 

"  *  I  am  the  son  of  David  Dormer,'  he  answered. 

"  '  David  Dormer,  the  old  Baptist  preacher  that  used 
to  live  in  Lincolnshire  ?'  I  said  in  haste.  '  That's  my 
father,'  he  answered.  Then  I  asked  where  you  were. 
He  told  me  in  Bedford  jail.  I  made  him  understand 
who  I  was,  and  took  him  home  with  me,  where  he  Iras 
been  living  ever  since.  And  he  shall  stay  with  me  as 
lona:  as  he  wants  to." 

o 

"  The  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  be  praised  for  direct 
ing  the  feet  of  my  poor  wandering  boy  to  your  door 
Be  a  mother  to  him,  Elizabeth,  and  may  he  reward  you 
with  a  son's  love  and  obedience.  Here,  William,  I  give 
you  to  this  woman.  She  will  be  to  you  a  mother. 
You  be  to  her  a  son,  my  boy,  and  may  God  make  you 
a  help  to  each  other." 

"  Now  tell  me,  Elizabeth,  how  the  poor  saints  come 
on  in  London.  I  hear  they  are  persecuted  there  as 
well  as  here.  It  seems  that  Satan  is  loosed  on  earth, 
and  is  set  to  destroy  the  saints  of  the  Most  High." 

"  The  times  are  very  fearful  there.  Ah !  they  are 
fearful  throughout  the  land,  Father  Dormer.  The  hand 

O 

of  vengeance  is  upon  the  children  of  God  ;  and  their 
cries  go  up  from  every  dungeon  in  the  kingdom  into  the 
ears  of  the  Lord  of  Sabbaoth.  And  he  will  come  to 
avenge  his  people  speedily.  He  delayeth  his  coming 


VISIT   TO   THE  JAIL.  193 

that  his  people  may  feel  their  dependence  upon  his  al 
mighty  arm.  But  when  he  doth  come,  then  will  he 
make  requisition  for  blood,  and  all  the  earth  shall  know 
that  the  Lord  God  omnipotent  reigneth." 

"  These  things  are  very  wonderful,  my  child.  The 
great  God  is  moving  in  a  mysterious  way.  He  is  per 
forming  his  purposes  through  marvellous  means,  but  I 
know  it  is  all  right,  though  it  is  so  hard  to  understand. 
I  will  trust  the  God  of  Jacob  though  he  slay  me.  But 
oh,  my  child,  what  must  be  the  terrible  reccompence 
that  he  will  visit  on  the  heads  of  his  enemies.  It  will 
be  a  consuming  fire  from  heaven,  which  shall  burn  up 
all  that  despise  him.  They  shall  be  consumed  in 
wrath,  they  shall  be  slain  with  the  sword.  They  shall 
all  utterly  perish.  For  God  will  avenge  and  succor  his 
people  when  the  time  of  his  visitation  has  come.  Thou 
wilt  not  cast  us  off,  O  God  of  Israel,  thou  wilt  not  cast 
us  off  forever,  but  in  loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy 
thou  wilt  visit  us,  and  our  strength  shall  be  renewed, 
so  that  one  shall  chase  a  thousand  and  two  shall  put 
ten  thousand  to  flight." 

"  It  is  true,  it  is  true,  Father  Dormer.  The  Lord  our 
God  will  be  a  refuge  for  the  oppressed,  a  refuge  in 
time  of  trouble.  The  cause  of  his  people  he  will 
maintain.  He  sitteth  on  the  throne  of  the  heavens 
judging  right,  and  the  needy  shall  not  always  be  for 
gotten  ;  the  expectations  of  the  poor  shall  not  perish 
forever.  For  the  righteous  Lord  loveth  righteousness. 
The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple.  The  Lord's  throne  is 
in  heaven ;  his  eyes  behold,  his  eyelids  try  the  chil 
dren,  of  men." 

Thus  these  two  faithful  children  of  God  sat  strength 
ening  each  other  with  the  glorious  truths  of  the  gos- 


194  MARY   BUNYAN. 

pel,  until  the  keeper  warned  them  that  it  was  time  for 
the  visitors  to  depart.  Mrs.  Bunyan  came  forth  from 
her  husband's  cell  with  a  more  cheerful  countenance. 
The  faith  and  confidence  of  her  husband  had  inspired 
her  heart  with  a  faint  hope.  It  is  good  for  the  chil 
dren  of  God  to  wait  on  him  in  faith.  Their  strength 
shall  be  renewed  thereby. 

Mrs.  Bunyan  invited  the  young  woman  and  the 
young  man  home  with  her  to  stay  through  the  night. 
Her  husband  had  told  her  to  do  so.  And  she  did  so 
to  comply  with  his  wish,  but  her  heart  misgave  her, 
for  she  remembered  there  was  nothing  to  eat,  and 
there  was  no  money  to  buy  food.  She  had  told  her 
husband  this  as  she  had  parted  with  him  in  the  cell, 
but  he  answered  : 

"  My  Elizabeth,  will  not  the  Lord  provide  ?  I  have 
never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken  nor  his  seed  begging 
bread.  '  Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do  good,  and  thou  shalt 
dwell  in  the  land,  and  surely  thou  shalt  be  fed.'  Is 
not  this  promise  enough  to  calm  your  fears,  and  to  stay 
your  heart,  my  wife  ?" 

She  saw  that  this  ought  to  be  sufficient,  but  she 
scarcely  felt  that  it  was. 

"  In  this  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation."  Could 
we,  under  every  dispensation  of  providence,  exercise 
that  degree  of  faith  in  the  promises  of  God  which  it 
is  our  privilege  to  do,  there  would  be  but  little 
sorrow  to  the  child  of  God.  He  would  then  realize 
feelingly  that  all  things  are  working  together  for  his 
good.  Sin  has  robbed  us  of  the  ability.  The  spirit  is 
willing,  but,  alas,  the  flesh  is  weak. 

Like  a  true  woman,  Mrs.  Bunyan  hid  her  uneasiness 
from  her  new  friends.  "  I  can  do  something,"  she 


VISIT   TO   THE   JAIL.  195 

said  to  herself,  "  and  maybe  God  will  provide  for  me. 
He  has  never  yet  left  me  to  starve,  though  he  has  suf 
fered  me  to  be  driven  me  to  my  wit's  ends  to  get  a  mor 
sel  for  my  famishing  children." 

As  Mrs.  Bunyan  and  her  friends  approached  the 
door,  little  Sarah,  overjoyed,  ran  out  to  meet  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  something  to  eat,  in  a  great 
big  basket !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  got  within  speaking 
distance  of  her  mother,  entirely  regardless  of  the 
presence  of  the  strangers. 

"  Let  us  be  thankful  for  it,  my  child,"  was  the 
mother's  answer,  her  heart  melting  with  grateful 
emotions,  while,  at  the  same  time,  her  conscience 
reproached  her  for  her  unbelief.  "  It  is  our  heavenly 
Father  who  has  sent  it  to  us." 

"  No,  mother,  Goody  Harrow  told  Thomas  that  the 
neighbors  sent  it  to  us." 

The  mother  smiled  at  the  child's  reply,  and  told  her 
how  God  must  have  put  it  into  the  minds  of  the  neigh 
bors  to  do  it,  or  they  would  not  have  thought  of  it. 
She  then  turned  to  the  woman  and  the  young  man, 
and  explained  to  them  her  circumstances. 

Mary  stood  at  the  door  to  meet  her  mother  on  her 
return.  The  house  was  as  tidy  as  neatness  and  care 
could  make  it.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  soft,  delicate 
cheek  at  the  mention  of  the  strangers'  names';  but  with 
unaffected  modesty  she  extended  her  hand  to  welcome 
them,  smiling,  and  bidding  them  enter,  in  a  voice  so 
sweet  and  flute-like,  that  Mrs.  Gaunt,  who  observed 
such  things  but  little,  stopped  to  take  a  second  look  at 
the  placid  sightless  face. 

And  the  child  of  thirteen  years  was  a  picture  of  more 
than  earthly  loveliness,  as  she  stood  there,  with  an 


196  MARY   BUNYAN. 

angelic  smile  lighting  up  her  delicate  features  and  pale 
cheek.  Her  dark  hair  was  combed  from  her  trans 
parent  forehead,  and  lay  behind  her  ears  in  child-like 
simplicity.  Her  neck,  graceful  as  the  swan's,  as  it 
glides  gently  down  the  smooth,  unruffled  bosom  of 
some  summer  lake,  was  covered  with  a  plain  white 
handkerchief,  crossed  over  her  breast,  and  tied  behind. 
Her  plain,  blue  stuff  dress  hung  scantily,  it  is  true, 
around  her  beautifully  moulded  form,  but  it  was  clean  ; 
and  her  shoes  and  stockings,  though  of  the  coarsest 
kind,  were  as  maculate  as  her  dress  and  handkerchief. 
Her  parted  lips  displayed  her  pearly  teeth,  and  her 
manner  was  as  gentle  and  easy  as  though  she  had  been 
reared  in  the  court  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Thus  she  appeared  to  William  Dormer,  as  he  gazed 
on  her  with  pity  and  admiration  ;  and  as  she  moved 
quietly  and  meekly  around  the  household,  assisting  her 
mother  in  every  preparation  with  so  much  readiness, 
and  at  the  same  time,  so  much  grace,  he  felt  his  inter 
est  in  the  blind  girl  constantly  increasing.  Her  sweet 
voice  charmed  him,  and  whenever  she  spoke  to  him, 
with  her  soft  clear  tones,  he  felt  his  heart  throb  faster, 
and  an  unusual  feeling  of  delight  thrilled  his  bosom, 
they  were  the  opposite  in  appearance  and  character. 
He,  brave  and  fiery  in  disposition,  excitable,  and  some 
what  resentful.  She,  timid  and  gentle,  full  of  fortitude 
and  forgiveness.  Yet  they  were  both  possessed  of  a 
high  tone  of  moral  principle,  which  rose  above  every 
thing  low  and  ignominious. 

o  o 

This  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  youth  and  the  blind 
girl.  They  met  often  in  after  years  ;  sometimes  under 
pleasant  circumstances,  at  others  under  scenes  the 
most  trying.  Thus  it  is  in  life — alternate  pleasure  and 


VISIT   TO   THE   JAIL.  197 

pain.  Well  would  it  be  for  us  if  we  could  be  grateful 
for  the  one,  and  patient  under  the  other. 

Almost  two  hundred  years  ago  ! 

A  group  is  gathered  around  the  fireside  of  a  poor, 
despised  man,  imprisoned  by  the  laws  of  his  land. 
They  are  the  offscouring  of  the  earth,  unnoticed  by  the 
rich,  the  great.  They  have  nothing  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  proud  or  noble.  Who  shall  ever  know 
them  beyond  the  circle  of  their  own  little  village? 
Surely  no  one.  Shall  not  their  names  perish  with 
them,  as  those  of  their  fathers  before  them  have  done  ? 
Ah, — no, — no.  They  were  called  upon  by  the  Master 
to  suffer  for  righteousness'  sake,  and  their  sufferings 
have  made  them  immortal.  They  have  passed 
from  earth  to  their  reward  above — one  from  the  midst 
of  the  burning  faggot ;  but  they  have  left  a  name  on 
earth  which  can  never  perish. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SUNLIGHT    IN    THE     CELL THE     ANGEL    CHILD, 

THE  life  of  the  daughter  is  so  intimately  connected 
with  that  of  the  father,it  is  impossible  to  separate  them. 
The  father  watched  over  the  daughter  with  ever  con 
stant  care  until  he  was  sent  to  prison,  and  then  the 
daughter  administered  to  his  wants,  soothed  and  ca 
ressed  him  through  the  twelve  long  weary  years  of  his 
confinement.  She  was  his  prison-companion.  The 
early  morning  found  her  at  the  gate  of  the  dungeon 
awaiting  admittance.  The  peaceful  evening  found  her 
standing  beside  him,  while  he,  with  uplifted  hand,  in 
voked  the  blessing  of  God  on  his  poor,  unprotected 
child.  He  felt  for  her  a  deeper,  tenderer  love,  than 
that  cherished  for  any  of  the  four  children,  because  of 
the  great  affliction  which  was  to  brood  over  her  through 
life.  She  was  his  first-born.  There  is  much  in  that. 
As  early  impressions  are  the  most  lasting,  so  the  pa 
rental  love  first  called  into  exercise  by  the  being  of 
the  first-born,  is  deeper,  more  sacred,  than  any  love  of 
after  years.  As  there  is  but  one  first-born,  so  there  is 
but  one  such  love  as  the  first-born  receives. 

In  infancy  he  had  looked  into  the  sealed  eyes,  which 
in  their  darkness,  gave  no  answering  look,  and  wept 
because  of  the  eternal  blindness,  even  while  his  weep- 

(198) 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  199 

ing  heart  uttered,  "  It  is  the  Lord ;  he  hath  done  what 
seemed  good  to  him."  He  had  knelt  with  her  mother 
the  chosen  of  his  young  affections,  and  consecrated 
their  child  to  God  Most  High,  before  her  infant  lips 
could  lisp  her  Maker's  name.  He  had  seen  those  dark 
ened  eyes  weep  tears  of  childish  sorrow  when  the  mother 
bade  her  loved  ones  farewell  in  death.  And  then  he 
had  clasped  her  to  his  widowered  heart,  his  earthly  so 
lace  and  support  in  his  dark  and  trying  hour.  Year 
after  year  he  had  watched  with  a  father's  love  the 
beautiful  unfoldings  of  that  meek  and  gentle  spirit, 
which  was  peculiarly  hers,  and  which  gave  to  her  in 
after  life  a  graceful  and  winning  manner,  that  made 
her  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her.  Hers  was  not  a 
weak  nature,  because  amiable  ;  nor  an  unfeeling  heart 
because  so  patient.  She  had  inherited  much  of  her 
father's  will  and  judgment,  and  at  the  same  time  much 
of  her  mother's  patience  and  affection.  These  charac 
teristics  combined,  enabled  her  to  exercise  self-control 
and  self-reliance  remarkable  in  one  so  young. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  are  now  writing  (the  fall 
of  1661),  Bunyan  was  in  his  thirty-fourth  year,  and 
Mary,  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  gather  up  from  incident 
(there  is  no  reliable  date  of  her  birth  given),  was  about 
thirteen  years  old.  From  her  childhood  her  father  had 
bestowed  upon  her  untiring  care  and  attention.  It  was 
his  delight  to  take  her  upon  his  knee  and  tell  her 
scripture  tales,  or  read  to  her  scripture  lessons.  These 
truths  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  her  mind. 
And  while  other  children  of  Elstow  were  at  play  on 
the  village  green,  or  rambling  through  the  meadows, 
she  was  duelling  upon  what  she  had  heard  from  her 
father's  lips.  The  seed  had  fallen  into  good  ground, 


200  HABY  BUNYAN. 

and  it  was  taking  deep  root.  In  after  years  it  produced 
abundantly  the  "  peaceable  fruits  of  righteousness." 

The  family  of  Bunyan  were  in  need.  Pinching 
poverty  had  been  tightening  her  grasp,  until  at  last 
her  lean  long  hands  were  pressing  out  the  life  of  wife 
and  children.  The  neighbors  were  kind,  very  kind  ; 
but  the  neighbors  were  poor,  very  poor.  They  had 
given  and  given,  until  they  could  give  but  little  more. 
Mrs.  Bunyan  had  managed  and  economized,  even 
stinted  herself,  to  make  the  cruise  of  oil  hold  out,  but 
there  was  no  prophet  to  say  to  her,  "  Fear  not.  For 
thus  saith  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  the  barrel  of  meal 
shall  not  waste,  neither  shall  the  cruise  of  oil  fail,"  but 
there  was  a  small,  still  voice,  whispering  to  her  fainting 
heart  these  precious  words  :  "  Trust  in  the  Lord,  and 
do  good ;  so  shalt  thou  dwell  in  the  land,  and  verily 
thou  shalt  be  fed."  "Shalt  be  fed,"  she  repeated  to 
herself.  "  The  Lord  himself  hast  spoken  it,  why  should 
I  doubt?  The  heavens  and  earth  may  pass  away,  but 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  God's  promises  to  his  people  shall 
not  be  left  unfulfilled.  I  cannot  see  how  it  is  to  be 
done.  But  did  he  not  divide  the  Red  Sea?  and  did  lie 
not  give  his  people  quails  and  manna  in  the  wilderness, 
and  streams  of  water  from  the  solid  rock  ?  He  will 
not  forsake  me."  Thus  would  faith  lay  hold  on  the 
promises,  and  feel  secure,  though  the  fig-tree  did  not 
blossom,  nor  was  there  fruit  in  the  vine. 

But  then  the  tempter  would  come,  and  faith  affrighted 
hid  herself,  and  the  Evil  One  reasoned  thus  with  her  : 
"  The  children  do  perish  with  hunger,  and  there  is  no 
hand  to  give  them  bread.  Their  father  is  dying  in 
prison,  placed  there  by  the  hatred  of  the  enemies  of 
God,  and  there  is  none  to  deliver  him.  The  heavens 


THE   ANGEL    CHILD.  201 

above  me  are  as  brass,  the  earth  beneath  me  is  as  iron. 
The  Lord  turneth  a  deaf  ear  to  my  supplications. 
There  is  no  eye  to  pity,  there  is  no  arm  to  save. 
Surely,  the  Lord  has  forsaken,  and  his  tender  mercies 
are  clean  gone  forever."  Thus  was  her  bosom  the 
battle-ground  of  alternate  hope  and  fear. 

The  words  of  the  children  often  added  to  her 
anguish.  They  complained,  they  murmured  sorely — 
all,  save  Mary.  ~No  breathing  of  repining  or  sorrow 
ever  fell  from  her  lips.  On  she  went,  from  day  to  day, 
with  her  same  sweet,  gentle  manner;  and  the  only 
visible  evidence  of  her  inward  grief  was  the  shadow. 
ings  that  crept  over  that  sweet,  sad  face.  She  did 
much  to  assist  her  mother  in  bearing  her  burden  of 
care  and  responsibility.  Her  assiduities  were  untiring. 
Her  watchfulness  over  little  Joseph  and  Sarah  were 
unceasing.  And  her  frequent  smile  and  words  of 
kindly  comfort  were  as  healing  balm  to  the  mother's 
kindly  heart. 

Mrs.  Bunyan  and  Mary  hid  their  distresses  from  the 
prisoner  with  the  most  sedulous  care,  lest  they  should 
add  to  his  trials,  which,  together  with  the  dampness 
of  his  cell  and  the  protracted  confinement,  were  wear 
ing  very  much  upon  his  health.  The  old  garments 
were  mended  and  darned,  washed  and  smoothed,  and 
made  to  present  the  very  best  appearance  possible. 
Little  delicacies  sent  in  by  the  neighbors  were  prepared 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  borne  by  loving  hands  to 
the  dark  cell.  And  bright  faces  carried  sunshine  there 
whenever  the  will  could  master  the  feelings.  But  darn 
upon  darn,  and  mend  upon  mend,  soon  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  husband  and  father,  and  he  felt  that  he 
must  lay  aside  his  books  and  do  something  to  earn  a 


202  MARY   BUNYAN. 

penny  to  meet  the  wants  of  his  family.  But  what 
could  he  do  ?  What  in  that  narrow,  dark  cell  ?  His 
furnace  and  moulds  were  useless  now.  He  knew 
nothing  else.  The  tinker  had  to  become  a  thinker % 
The  purposes  of  the  Infinite  were  beginning  to  unfold. 
They  were,  it  is  true,  the  cloud  "  no  bigger  than  a 
man's  hand,"  which  only  the  eye  of  the  prophet  could 
discern.  But  their  gradual  development  and  their 
effects  have  been  the  wonder  of  all  succeeding  ages, 
and  thousands  throughout  eternity  will  sing  praises  to 
God  for  his  goodness  in  making  John  Bunyan  a  pris 
oner  for  the  "  truth's  sake." 

Could  we  but  see  now  as  we  shall  see,  when  the 
"  vail  is  rent,"  and  the  "  inner  glory"  shall  burst  upon 
us,  we  would  "rejoice  in  afflictions,"  and  joy  in  per 
secutions. 

John  Bunyan  looked  around  him  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  he  could  do  that  would  bring  him  any  gain. 
He  plainly  saw  that  his  imprisonment  would  not  soon 
end.  Indeed,  he  must  now  wait  months  before  there 
would  be  even  an  opportunity  for  him  to  make  another 
effort  for  his  release. 

He  racked  his  brain  to  devise  some  employment 
which  might  add  to  the  scanty  store  of  his  little  family. 
Day  by  day  he  thought  of  it ;  night  after  night  it 
haunted  his  brain. 

At  last  an  idea  struck  him.  Whether  it  grew  out 
of  his  former  occupation  or  not  is  not  for  me  to  decide. 
I  have  thought  it  was  an  invention  of  his  own  great 
brain,  which,  in  its  power  and  comprehensiveness, 
could  take  heed  of  even  the  smallest  things,  and  turn 
them  to  account.  His  imagination  and  ingenuity  were 
wonderful.  This  all  know,  who  have  read  his  "  Holy 


THE   ANGEL  CHILD.  203 

City"  and  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  And  although  there 
is  no  record  of  incidents  to  show  us  that  these  two 
faculties  were  brought  to  bear  on  the  every-day  affairs 
of  life,  yet  we  are  not  therefore  to  suppose  that  they 
were  not  called  into  requisition  there,  as  well  as  in  his 
authorship.  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  they  aided  him 
much  in  turning  to  useful  purposes  many  little  odds 
and  ends  which  would  have  been  wasted  in  the  hands 
of  other  men  under  similar  circumstances. 

He  found,  at  last,  an  occupation  compatible  with  his 
narrow  cell,  and  still  narrower  means.  And  what  was 
it  ?  What  could  the  tinker-preacher  do  under  such 
forlorn  circumstances  ?  Hear  his  reply :  "  I  can  tag 
laces,  and  thereby  make  a  penny  for  my  poor  wife  and 
little  ones."  And  tag  laces  he  did,  day  by  day,  from 
morn  till  night.  It  required  but  little  outlay  of  capital, 
for  the  braid  cost  but  a  mere  trifle,  and  the  bits  of 
wires  he  had  gathered  up  while  he  was  a  tinker,  would 
tip  many  a  yard  of  braid.  It  was  the  blind  daughter's 
business  to  dispose  of  these  laces  when  thus  made. 
She  would  go  about  the  streets  of  Bedford,  and  through 
the  suburbs,  with  her  little  basket  to  sell  her  father's 
work,  that  her  mother  and  the  children  might  not 
want  for  bread.  Oftentimes  she  met  with  rebuffs,  for 
there  were  some  in  Bedford  violent  opposers  of  her 
father,  and  she  soon  became  known  throughout  the 
place  as  "  John  Bunyan's  blind  Mary."  Those  favor 
able  to  her  father's  cause  treated  her  kindly,  pitying 
her  hard  lot,  and  compassionating  her  sad  misfortune, 
And  oftentimes  a  stray  penny  found  its  way  into  the 
thin  hand  extended  to  receive  the  trifle  for  her  little 
store. 

It  is  Saturday  morning.     The  week's  provision  is 


204:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

almost  exhausted.  "Watchful  care  and  frugality  have 
conducted  the  inner  arrangements  of  the  cottage-home 
at  Elstow,  and  economy  lias  presided  at  the  board. 
But  friends  have  partaken  of  the  homely  fare,  and  it  is 
running  short. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt  and  William  Dormer  have  left  the 
night  before  to  go  to  Bedford,  on  their  return  home. 
Mrs.  Bunyan  finds  her  barrel  and  cruise  almost  empty. 

"  I  will  go  to  see  father  to-day,  mother.  I  know  he 
has  got  more  laces  done,  and  maybe  I  can  sell  some 
and  get  money  to  buy  ns  bread." 

"  You  must  do  this,  Mary,  or  we  will  have  to  beg. 
Take  Joseph  with  you  to  show  you  along.  And  may 
God  put  it  into  the  hearts  of  the  people  to  help  you, 
my  poor  child.  If  he  don't,  we  must  starve." 

Mary  went  about  her  preparation.  Little  Joseph 
put  on  his  cleanly  washed  suit.  But  he  had  neither 
hat  nor  shoes. 

"  My  hat's  all  gone,  mother,  and  I  can't  get  a  thing 
to  put  on  my  head  to  go  -with  Mary." 

"  Thomas  will  lend  you  his  hat,  and  he  can  wear 
yours  about  the  house." 

"  And  I  have  n't  got  any  shoes,  either,  and  it's  so 
cold  this  morning,"  said  he,  despairingly,  as  he  poked 
his  little  bare  red  feet  close  to  the  smouldering  fire, 
and  seemed  every  moment  ready  to  cry. 

"  You  can  walk  fast,  Joseph  and  you  won't  get  very 
cold.  It  will  be  warm  after  awhile.  Would  you  let 
Mary  go  by  herself  to  get  you  bread  ?" 

The  little  fellow  stooped  down  to  rub  his  feet  with 
his  hands,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  could  protect  his  sis 
ter  at  the  expense  of  his  own  comfort. 

At  length  he  looked  up  into  his  mother's  face  and 


THE   ANGEL    CHILD.  205 

answered  pleasantly,  "  I  don't  want  Mary  to  go  by  her 
self,  but  it  is  so  cold.  But  maybe  the  frost  wont  bite 
my  feet." 

"  You  will  go  with  Mary,  then,  Joseph,  to  take  care 
of  her,  and  see  your" father." 

"  I  want  to  see  father,  but  I'm  afraid  of  that  old 
jailer.  I  mean  that  one  that  opens  the  doors,  and  locks 
them  again  with  the  big  keys  at  his  side.  He  scares 
me  most  to  death,  he  looks  so  ugly." 

"  Who  watches  over  little  children  when  their 
fathers  are  in  prison,  Joseph,  and  takes  care  of  them, 
so  that  not  a  hair  of  their  heads  is  hurt  ?" 

"God  does,  mother,  when  the  little  boys  are  at 
home  with  their  mothers  ;  but  I  don't  think  he  can  get 
into  that  old  jail,  they  keep  the  doors  locked  so  tight. 
When  I  go,  it's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  squeeze  in,  the 
old  man  holds  the  door  so  close.  I  don't  think  God 
could  get  through  the  little  crack." 

"  God  is  everywhere,  Joseph,"  said  the  mother,  smil 
ing  at  the  child's  reply.  "  He  does  not  ask  the  jailer 
to  let  him  in.  He  goes  wherever  he  pleases." 

The  child  made  no  answer.  The  thought  was  too 
much  for  his  infant  mind. 

Mary  soon  made  her  appearance,  ready  to  set  out  on 
her  errand  of  love.  Her  attire  was  very  scant, -yet 
faultlessly  clean.  She  had  outgrown  the  dark  stirft 
dress,  whose  sleeves,  mended  and  darned,  showed  the 
mother's  care.  The  old  worsted  cloak,  with  its  hood 
of  the  same,  which  had  been  a  family  relic  for  years, 
and  bore  the  evident  marks  of  usage,  but  was  scrupu 
lously  clean,  hung  lightly  over  her  shoulders.  Her 
dark  hair  was  combed  back  plainly  from  her  pure 
white  brow,  and  held  in  its  place  by  the  blue  bonnet, 


206  MAEY   BUNYAN. 

wliicli  fitted  snugly  around  her  face.  Her  shoes  were 
so  worn  she  could  scarcely  keep  them  on  her  feet ;  but 
they  were  tied  together  in  front,  and  were  free  from 
dirt.  Her  white  apron,  which  showed  between  the 
opening  of  the  cloak  in  front,  was  without  speck  or  spot. 
On  her  arm  hung  the  little  basket,  which  was  to  bear 
her  store  from  house  to  house.  A  clean  white  cloth 
covered  it.  Beneath  the  cloth  there  was  a  dainty  bit 
for  the  father,  which  loving  hands  had  hid  away  there 
from  the  scant  allowance  of  the  morning  meal. 

Her  face  was  radiant  with  the  high  and  holy  pur 
poses  of  her  heart.  And  she  who  was  usually  so  timid, 
so  shrinking,  now  appeared  strong  in  her  noble  deter 
mination. 

"  Are  you  ready  to  go  with  me  now,  Joseph  2"  she 
asked  sweetly  of  the  little  boy,  as  he  stood  warming 
his  toes. 

"  You  must  wear  my  shoes,  Mary,  yours  are  too 
poor,"  said  the  kind  mother,  as  she  looked  on  the  old 
shoes  and  the  delicate  form  before  her.  "  Here,  put 
them  on,  child  ;  they  don't  fit  you,  but  you  can  tie 
them  tight,  and  they  won't  slip  off.  I  can  make  out 
with  yours  to-day  about  the  house." 

As  she  stooped  to  put  the  old  shoes  oi^her  feet,  the 
mother  let  fall  a  tear.  The  blind  one  could  not  see  it, 
but  with  that  wonderful  exquisiteness  of  sensitiveness 
which  the  blind  possess,  she  felt  it  as  it  fell.  The 
bright  and  joyous  expression  of  her  face  changed 
instantly  to  one  of  sympathetic  sadness.  She  could 
not  speak  a  word  of  cheer  to  her  mother,  although  her 
heart  was  bursting  to  do  it.  She  knew  not  what  to  say. 
So  she  took  little  Joseph  by  the  hand,  and  bidding  her 
mother  good  morning,  set  out  on  her  walk. 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  207 

The  morning  was  cold  and  frosty.  Joseph  com 
plained  of  his  feet.  She  endeavored  to  divert  his  mind 
from  his  trouble  by  telling  him  how  glad  their  father 
would  be  to  see  him,  and  how  he  should  go  with  her 
through  the  streets  of  Bedford,  and  see  all  the  sights 
to  be  seen. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go,  Mary.  I  will  stay  at  the 
jail." 

"  No,  no,  Joseph  you  must  go  with  me.  You  know 
I  can't  see,  and  you  must  go  with  me  that  I  may  not 
get  lost." 

"  No,  I  am  going  to  stay  in  the  jail  all  the  day,"  re 
plied  the  little  fellow  with  that  perverseness  which 
characterizes  all  children. 

"  You  have  gone  many  times  by  yourself,  Mary,  and 
why  can't  you  do  it  to-day  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me,  Joseph,  because  I 
am  going  to  many  places  where  I  have  never  been  be 
fore,  and  I  am  afraid  I'll  get  hurt." 

"  Bat  I  am  not  going  with  you.  I  am  going  to  stay 
with  father  in  the  jail  all  this  day." 

Mary  saw  it  was  best  to  let  him  have  his  own  way. 
Resistance  or  entreaty  but  increased  his  opposition. 
So  she  only  s^.  timidly,  "  "Well,  then,  I'll  go  by  my 
self." 

They  stepped  briskly  along,  and  soon  their  little  feet 
had  gained  the  eminence  which  overlooked  ^the  old 
bridge  with  its  jail.  Mary's  mind  had  been  filled  with 
busy  thoughts.  A  new  life  was  about  to  dawn  upon 
her.  The  first  faint  beams  were  just  beginning  to  tinge 
her  horizon.  She  knew  her  feelings,  but  could  not  under 
stand  them.  They  were  not  ideas,  which  could  shape 
themselves  into  words.  They  were  emotions  that 


208  MARY   BUNYAST. 

thrilled  the  heart — the  being — with  strange,  mysteri 
ous  raptures,  which  could  not  be  expressed,  which  she 
could  not  define  to  herself.  The  power  was  there,  but 
from  whence  it  came,  or  to  what  lead,  she  knew  not. 

"  What,  here  again  so  soon,  you  children  you  ? 
You'll  bother  me  to  death,"  said  the  surly  turnkey,  as 
Mary  and  Joseph  applied  for  admittance.  "  I  wish 
they'd  send  your  father  home  to  stay  with  yon,  and 
keep  you  away  from  here  ;  you  are  so  troublesome." 

Mary's  heart  was  very  tender,  and  at  these  unfeeling 
words  of  the  turnkey,  she  commenced  to  cry.  Joseph 
on  the  contrary,  felt  quite  heroic,  and  his  fast  walk 
made  him  more  than  unusually  animated.  lie  looked 
up  into  the  face  of  the  assistant  as  he  growled  out  his 
words,  and  when  he  was  through,  he  replied  with  his 
most  independent  air, 

"  I  wish  they  would  send  father  home.  Then  we 
could  get  to  see  him  all  the  time,  and  we  wouldn't  have 
to  ask  you  either." 

"  Hush  up,  you  brat  you,"  said  the  turnkey,  as  he 
took  the  child  by  the  arm  and  forced  him  through  the 
outer  gate.  "  You  had  better  not  speak  to  me  in  that 
way  again." 

Just  at  this  moment  the  jailer  came  u^  on  his  way 
to  Bunyan's  cell,  and  seeing  the  angry  looks  of  the 
turnkey,  and  hearing  his  harsh  words,  asked  -what  was 
wrong  ?t 

"  These  children  here,  of  that  prisoner,  John  Bunyan, 
trouble  me  to  death.  They  are  always  here,  wanting 
to  see  him." 

"  Let  them  come  with  me,"  said  the  jailer,  rather  re 
provingly,  to  the  turnkey,  "  I'll  take  care  of  them. 
What's  your  name,  child  ?"  said  he  to  Joseph.  "  I 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  209 

know  your  sister's  name.  Come,  Mary,  follow 
me." 

"My  name  is  Joseph,"  replied  the  little  child,  look 
ing  up  much  pleased,  into  the  kind  face  of  the  jailer, 
"  I  don't  like  that  old  man.  He  aint  good  to  little 
boys.  I  wish  I  was  big." 

""What  for,  Joseph?"  asked  the  jailer,  half  divining 
the  cause  of  the  wish. 

"  Then  I'd  make  that  old  ugly  man  know  what  he 
was  about,  and  I  wouldn't  let  him  make  Mary  cry." 

"  Never  mind,  my  little  fellow,  we  are  going  to  see 
your  father,"and  the  man  led  him  through  the  narrow 
court,  then  along  the  narrow  passage,  and  then  through 
the  narrow  opening  that  conducted  to  Bunyan's  cell. 

"  This  is  the  one  !"  exclaimed  little  Joseph,  as  they 
reached  the  door  of  the  cell.  <;  Father's  in  here,  aint 
he  ?  I  wish  you'd  let  him  come  home  to  stay  with  us. 
He's  so  tired  here,  in  this  old  jail." 

"  I  wish  I  could  let  your  father  go  home  with  you  to 
stay,"  replied  the  kind-hearted  man,  as  he  took  the  key 
from  his  pocket  and  unlocked  the  door. 

"  Oh,  can't  you,  sir,  can't  you  let  father  out  ?"  asked 
Mary,  breathlessly. 

"  No,  child  ;  the  laws  of  the  land  forbid  me  to  do 
it." 

The  door  opened.  There  sat  the  prisoner  beneath 
the  little  window ;  his  pincers  in  hand,  and  his  stay 
laces  on  his  knee ;  the  bits  of  brass,  out  of  which  he 
made  the  "  tags"  or  tips,  were  in  a  small  box  by  his 
side.  His  Bible  and  Concordance,  and  his  Book  of 
Martyrs  (the  only  three  books  he  ever  had  in  prison), 
were  on  a  stool  near  him.  His  rose-bush,  whose 
memory,  because  connected  with  his  most  pleasing 


210  MART   BUNYAN. 

prison  associations,  lie  has  perpetuated  in  the  following 
lines,  stood  near  the  little  window  : 

"  This  homely  bush  doth  to  mine  eyes  expose 
A  very  fair,  yea,  comely,  ruddy  rose, 
This  rose  doth  always  bow  its  head  to  me, 
Saying, '  Come,  pluck  me  ;  I  thy  rose  will  be.'  " 

But  it  seems  that  when  he  wished  to  accept  the 
blushing  invitation  of  his  coy  companion,  she  offered 
to  his  eager  fingers  her  pricking  thorns,  for  which 
abuse  of  his  admiration  he  playfully  reprimands  her : 

"  Yet,  offer  I  to  gather  rose  or  bud 
'Tis  ten  to  one  but  bush  will  have  my  blood. 
Bush,  why  dost  bear  a  rose,  if  none  must  have  it? 
Why  thus  expose  it,  yet  claw  those  who  crave  it? 
Art  become  freakish  ?    Dost  the  Wanton  play  ? 
Or  dost  thy  testy  humor  tend  this  way  ? 
This  looks  like  a  trepan  or  a  decoy, 
To  offer,  and  yet  snap  who  would  enjoy."* 

Bunyan  raised  his  head.  His  children  were  before 
him.  Patting  his  pincers  and  laces  aside,  he  drew 
them  to  him,  and  placing  little  Joseph  on  his  knee, 
while  Mary  found  a  seat  on  a  settle  beside  him,  he 
asked  about  their  mother,  and  Thomas,  and  Sarah. 

The  jailer  looked  at  the  prisoner.  His  noble  brow 
was  expanded  with  the  happiness  which  filled  his 
overflowing  heart.  Tears  moistened  his  eyes.  The 
jailer's  heart  was  troubled.  lie  had  always  been  very 
kind  to  Bunyan,  allowing  him  many  privileges  which 
he  did  not  extend  to  other  prisoners.  He  often  sought 
his  cell  to  converse  with  him,  for  Bunyan's  fine  com 
mon  sense  and  his  general  information  made  him  a 

*  It  will  be  seen  from  these  lines  that  Bunyan  wrote  poetry  as  well  as  prose. 
But  it  was  doubtless  much  more  of  a  task  to  him.  He  could  reason  far  better 
than  he  could  rhvmo. 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  211 

pleasant  companion.     He  was  a  favorite  with  all  the 
prisoners,  except  the  most  abandoned. 

The  jailer  had  come  to  converse  with  him  this  morn 
ing.  He  loved  to  listen  to  the  truths  of  Revelation,  as 
made  clear  by  the  prisoner  in  his  own  quaint  style,  and 
to  get  his  advice  on  many  points  of  duty  ;  for  Bunyan's 
common  sense  and  staunch  integrity  made  him  a  safe 
adviser.  But  the  children  claimed  the  father's  atten 
tion,  and  the  jailer  bid  his  prisoner  good  morning,  and 
retired. 

"  And  how  do  all  things  work  at  home,  Mary  ?"  asked 
Bunyan  of  his  blind  child  when  the  jailer  had  left. 

Mary  tried  to  look  cheerful  as  she  replied,  "  We  get 
on  very  well,  father." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,  my  child.  I  have  been  sore 
pressed,  thinking  of  you  all,  fearing  you  would  suffer 
for  bread.  But  your  store  has  held  out,  has  it  ?" 

"  We  aint  got  anything  to  eat,  father,"  spoke  up 
Joseph  "before  Mary  could  answer, — his  murmuring 
spirit,  because  of  his  barefooted  walk,  not  having  yet 
fully  subsided.  "  And  I  haven't  got  any  shoes  to  put 
on  my  feet,  and  my  feet  are  so  cold." 

The  prisoner  paused  and  sighed.  Little  Joseph, 
perceiving  the  effect  upon  his  father,  continued  his 
complaint. 

"  And  we  haven't  got  any  clothes  hardly,  just  two 
or  three  old  rags,  that  mother  keeps  sewing  up  and 
sewing  up.  And  Mary's  got  no  shoes,  neither.  She's 
got  on  mother's  shoes  now,  and  I  had  to  wear  Thomas' 
hat.  My  old  hat  is  so  tore  to  pieces,  mother  made 
Tom  lend  me  his.  It's  very  hard  times  at  our  house, 
father.  Mary  won't  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  do  wish 


212  MART   BUNYAN. 

you  would  come  home  to  give  us  something  to  eat,  and 
some  clothes  to  wear  too." 

It  was  a  dark  time  for  Bunyan's  faith.  Let  any 
affectionate  Christian  father  imagine  his  situation. 
The  night  was  dark,  the  wilderness  pathless,  enemies 
were  on  every  side,  the  "  pillar  of  fire"  was  scarcely  to 
be  seen. 

But  God  must  be  trusted,  though  he  slay.  He 
remembered  the  Israelites  at  the  banks  of  the  sea.  He 
brought  to  mind  the  people  of  God  in  the  wilderness, 
where  there  was  no  bread.  He  thought  of  the  chosen 
ones,  as  they  stood  famishing  for  water  in  the  desert, 
with  naught  but  the  flinty  rock  before  them.  He 
recalled  the  promises,  and  though  he  was  passing 
through  the  valley  of  Baca,  yet  he  made  for  himself  a 
well  of  consolation  and  of  hope. 

"  I  can't  come  home  to  stay  with  you,  Joseph.  And 
you  must " 

"  And  why  can't  you,  father  ?"  interrupted  the  child. 

"  The  king  won't  let  me.  God  says  we  must  obey 
the  king,  and  the  king  says  I  must  stay  here  ;  and  if  I 
disobey  him,  I  will  disobey  God  too.  Don't  you  see 
that,  child  ?" 

Joseph  had  never  before  understood  why  his  father 
would  go  back  to  jail,  instead  of  staying  at  home, 
when  he  was  there.  He  was  quite  puzzled  for  an 
answer  to  his  father's  question,  because  he  perceived 
the  reason  so  clearly,  and  still  was  unwilling  to  admit 
the  king's  right  to  keep  his  father  away  from  his 
family. 

"  You  see  why  I  come  back  to  jail  now,  don't  you 
Joseph?" 

"  Yes,   father,"   he   said   hesitatingly,   "  but    won't 


THE  ANGEL    CHILD.  213 

you  never  get  out  of  here,  and  come  home  to  stay  with 
us?" 

"I  cannot  tell,  Joseph.     It  is  just  as  God  says." 

"  "Well,  we  won't  have  a  thing  to  eat  if  you  don't, 
father.  I  don't  think  God  ought  to  keep  you  here,  and 
not  give  us  bread." 

"  God  will  give  you  bread,  my  son.  He  feeds  the 
ravens  when  they  cry,  and  he  will  feed  you." 

"  And  will  he  give  Mary  shoes,  too,  father  ?  If  he 
would,  then  I  could  take  her  old  ones." 

"  Yes,  he  will  give  Mary  shoes,  too,  if  it  is  best  for 
her  to  have  them.  But  you  don't  wan't  shoes, 
Joseph.  You  must  run  about,  and  keep  your  feet 
warm." 

"  Did  you  come  to  get  laces  to  sell,  my  daughter?" 

Banyan  spoke  in  a  tone  of  tenderness  to  his  "  poor 
blind  child"  that  he  never  used  in  addressing  any  one 
else.  His  natural  manner  savored  somewhat  of  blunt- 
ness,  oftentimes  of  severity. 

"  Yes,  father,  I  have  ;  if  I  don't  sell  something  to 
buy  bread  with,  we  will  have  nothing  to  eat  soon. 
Our  meal  is  nearly  out." 

"  "Well,  I  have  got  a  good  parcel  for  you,  my  child, 
and  may  God  bless  you  to-day.  I  have  worked  hard 
since  your  mother  was  here.  Here,"  said  he,  putting 
Joseph  from  his  knee,  and  going  to  the  other  end  of 
Jiis  cell  and  feeling  about  for  a  few  moments.  '•  There, 
see,  I  have  made  all  of  these,  and  there  are  some  on 
that  chair  there  that  I  have  finished  this  morning.  I 

O 

worked  hard  all  day  yesterday,  even  when  Mrs.  Gaunt 
and  "William  Dormer  were  in." 

At  the  mention  of  these  names,  a  slight  agitation 
crept  over  the  face  of  the  blind  girl.  The  father  did 


214:  MARY    BUNYAN. 

not  observe  it.  He  was  too  busily  engaged  in  sorting 
out  and  arranging  his  week's  work. 

"  Give  me  your  basket,  my  child.  Here,  Joseph, 
don't  you  upset  that  stool  and  spill  the  things  on  it.  I 
will  put  this  little  morsel  in  the  basket  for  you  to  eat." 

"  Oh,  no,  father,  we  brought  that  for  you.  I  have 
got  some  bread  here  for  me  and  Joseph,"  and  she  took 
out  from  under  her  cloak  a  little  roll,  and  showed  him. 
"  You  must  eat  that  yourself." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  with  Mary,  father.  I  want  to 
stay  with  you,"  broke  in  little  Joseph,  as  he  heard  his 
sister  making  provision  for  his  evening  meal. 

"I  would  like  to  have  you  to  to  stay  with  me, 
Joseph  ;  but  you  must  go  with  Mary,  and  show  her 
the  way." 

"  I  don't  know  the  way  myself,  father.  I  don't  want 
to  go  with  Mary,"  answered  the  child  pettishly. 

"  You  don't  want  to  stay  in  this  dark  place  all  day, 
do  you,  child  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  with  Mary.  I  want  to  play  in 
the  river,  under  the  bridge." 

"  But  you  will  be  colder  there,  than  if  you  were  with 
Mary  ;  and  you  might  fall  in  the  river  and  get 
drowned." 

The  child  hung  his  head. 

"  You  must  go  with  Mary,  Joseph,"  said  the  father, 
in  a  tone  of  kind  command.  "  Mary  wants  you  to 
keep  her  out  of  danger." 

The  child  .felt  he  must  obey  ;  so  he  took  up  his  hat. 
and,  looking  up  at  his  father,  said  :  "  Well,  I  must 
come  back  to  see  you  again  before  I  go  home." 

"  Yes,  you  and  Mary  must  come  back  this  evening, 
and  let  me  see  what  you  have  done.  You  must  not 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  215 

.:.:.:  run  away  from  her,  but  walk  along  by  her  side,  and 
show  her  the  way.  "  God  loves  good  children,"  and 
he  placed  his  hand  caressingly  on  the  child's  head. 

Every  feeling  of  unwillingness  was  gone.  Kindness 
':v||  had  conquered  all  opposition.  K(, 

"  Come  after  your  day's  work  is  done,  and  let  me 
see  how  you  have  prospered.  God  speed  you  on  your 
way,  and  give  the  people  hearts  of  kindness  towards 
you,  my  children." 

Mary  received  the  basket  from  her  father's  hands, 
filled  with  the  results  of  his  week's  labor.  Joseph 
took  up  his  hat  and  placed  it  upon  his  head.  As  he 
did  so,  he  began  to  cry. 

"  What  ails  you,  child  ?"  said  his  father,  stooping 
;  over  and  taking  hold  of  him. 

"  The  people  will  laugh  at  me  cause  Tom's  hat  is  so 
!  big." 

The  father  well  understood  now  the  ground  of  the 
little  fellow's  opposition  to  going  with  his  sister. 

"  There,  don't  cry,  my  little  boy.  I  will  make  the 
hat  fit  you.  See,  I'll  take  one  of  these  laces  and  draw 
it  up  until  you  can  wear  it  very  well." 

He  took  one  of  the  unfinished  ones  from  the  settee, 
and  bound  it  round  the  hat,  then  fitted  it  to  his  head, 
and  tied  it. 

"  Now  it  looks  well.  Dry  your  tears,  and  go  with 
Mary.  And  if  anybody  laughs  at  you,  you  musn't 
mind  it.  Be  a  man." 

The  little  boy  stepped  on  after  Mary,  feeling  that 
his  father  knew  better  than  he  did,  to  be  sure,  but  not 
altogether  satisfied  that  the  hat  was  as  becoming  as  it 
should  be.  And  the  turnkey  had  scarcely  closed  the 
inner  door  of  the  jail,  before  he  took  it  off,  and  hold- 


216  MARY   BUNYAN. 

ing  it  up  in  Lis  band,  examined  it  minutely.  He  re 
placed  it  again  with  a  half-satisfied  air,  and  taking 
Mary's  hand,  the  two  passed  the  bridge,  and  sought 
the  town. 

It  is  a  sad,  yet  intensely  interesting  picture,  to  see 
these  two  unfortunate  children,  the  one  blind  and  timid 
as  a  fawn,  the  other  a  little  boy  scarcely  six  years  old, 
barefooted,  and  but  thinly  clad,  wandering  from  house 
to  house  with  the  little  basket  of  stay-laces,  which  was 
all  the  means  of  support  for  a  mother  and  four  chil 
dren. 

"  Will  you  buy  some  of  these  laces,  if  you  please, 
sir?"  asked  a  gentle  voice  of  a  man,  as  he  stood  in  the 
door  of  his  shop,  gazing  into  the  street. 

He  looked  upon  the  applicant  a  moment,  and  then 
muttered  to  himself,  "  That  pestilent  fellow,  Banyan's 
daughter,"  and  answered  sharply  : 

"  No,  go  on  ;  I  want  none  of  your  laces." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  pale  brow  and  cheek  of  the 
girl,  and  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  She  clasped  her 
brother's  hand  closely,  and  was  about  to  pass  on,  as 
commanded.  But  little  Joseph  was  not  so  easily  intim 
idated  ;  and  looking  at  the  man  as  he  stood  there,  rub 
bing  his  hands  together  to  keep  them  warm,  he  said : 

"But  we  want  bread,  sir.  We  havn't  got  anything 
to  eat  at  home,  all  of  us — mother,  and  Tom,  and  Sarah 
and  us.  And  if  you  don't  buy  Mary's  laces,  all  of  us 
will  starve,  sir." 

The  man  eyed  the  child  closely,  and  hesitated  to  re 
ply.  He  thought  of  his  four  little  ones  at  home,  his 
Mary  and  Sarah  ;  and  although  bitter  against  the  non 
conformists,  willing  at  any  time,  in  his  party  zeal  to  see 
their  heads  cut  off,  yet  the  affections  of  a  father  were 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  217 

strong  in  his  bosom,  and  triumphed  over  sectarian 
hatred  ;  so  he  bade  the  blind  girl  hand  him  her  basket 
that  he  might  look  at  her  laces. 

As  she  reached  oat  her  basket,  she  turned  her  face 
to  him.  He  had  a  full  sight  of  it  from  under  her  blue 
bonnet.  He  had  never  seen  anything  so  delicately 
beautiful,  so  pensively  sad.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  had  a  full  view  of  her  countenance,  though 
.he  had  often  seen  her  passing  through  the  streets,  and 
had  learned  that  she  was  the  blind  child  of  John  Bun- 
}'an,  whom  he  hated  intensely.  Her  sweet,  sorrowful 
look  touched  his  heart,  and  pity  for  the  child  gained 
for  the  moment  the  ascendency  over  hatred  for  the 
father. 

"What  is  your  price  for  a  bunch  of  these,  child  ?" 

_u  A  penny  sir,  for  the  small  bunches,  and  two 
pence  for  the  large  ones,"  she  answered  modestly,  yet 
cheerfully. 

The  kind  tones  of  the  speaker  had  animated  her 
heart,  and  filled  it  with  hope.  It  was  the  first  applica 
tion  she  had  made,  and  she  was  delighted  with  her  suc 
cess.  She  thought  of  her  father's  earnest  request,  and 
she  felt  that  God  would  answer  that  prayer. 

u  Take  as  many  of  them  as  you  please,  sir,"  she  ven 
tured  to  say,  as  the  man  was  casting  over  the  bunches. 
"  I  want  to  sell  them  all  to-day,  for  my  mother  and  the 
children  have  no  bread." 

"  Here,  child,  I  will  take  these  six  small  bunches, 
and  these  three  large  ones." 

Mary's  heart  leaped  with  joy,  as  she  thought  of  the 
money  she  was  about  to  receive. 

He  walked  into  his  store  to  get  it. 

"Didn't  he  take  many?"  said  Joseph   smiling,  and 

in 


218  MARY   BUNYAN. 

looking  up  into  his  sister's  face.      "  "We'll  Jiave  bread, 
now,  won't  we,  Mary  ?" 

"  Yes,  Joseph ;  didn't  father  tell  you  God  would 
give  us  bread  ?" 

"  God  aint  going  to  give  us  this  bread,  Mary ; 
mother's  going  to  buy  it." 

She  began  to  explain,  but  the  step  of  the  shop-keeper 
arrested  her. 

"  Here,  little  blind  girl,  is  your  money,"  and  he 
placed  in  her  hand  a  new  bright  shilling. 

Her  heart  leaped  with  delight,  as  she  felt  the  beauti 
ful,  new  coin.  She  knew  from  the  feeling  of  it  that  it 
was  a  pretty  thing,  and  her  highly  cultivated  imagina 
tion,  together  with  that  exquisite  sensitiveness  which 
the  blind  all  possess,  invested  it  with  a  thousand  un 
known  charms.  She  felt  like  flying  to  the  prison,  to 
show  it  to  her  father.  She  pictured  to  herself  the 
joy  of  her  mother,  when  she  should  see  it.  She 
had  never  before,  in  all  her  selling,  received  sc 
much  at  once.  The  only  thought  that  marred  her  in 
tense  happiness  was,  that  now  the  kind  shop-keeper 
had  so  many  he  would  never  want  any  more. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  she  said  to  the  shop-keeper, 
as  she  gathered  her  basket,  and  proceeded  on  her  way. 
Joseph,  in  his  joy,  forgot  to  speak. 

As  soon  as  he  was  far  enough  from  the  door  not  to 
be  heard  by  the  man,  he  said  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight : 

"  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  I  am  so  glad  I  came  with  you ! 
I  told  the  man  to  buy  your  laces,  didn't  I  ?  I  told  him 
we  had  no  bread  at  home,  and  we  would  all  starve  if 
he  didn't  do  it.  I'm  coming  with  you  every  time  to 
help  you  sell." 

"  I  want  you  to  come  with  me,  Joseph,  but  you  must 


THE   ANGEL  CHILD.  219 

feel  that  it  was  God  who  put  it  into  the  heart  of  that 
man  to  treat  us  so  kindly." 

"  Well,  but  I  got  him  to  buy  the  laces,  Mary.  You 
know  he  didn't  look  at  them  till  I  told  him  we  would 
starve.  God  made  him  good  to  us,  but  I  made  him 
buy  the  laces." 

"  No,  no,  Joseph,  you  couldn't  make  him  do  any 
thing  ;  it  was  God.  He  made  him  kind  to  us,  for  he 
makes  all  men " 

"  Here,  Mary,  here  is  another  shop  ;  and  the  man  is 
in  the  door.  You  see  if  I  don't  make  him  buy  too." 

"  Where,  Joseph  ?  take  me  to  him,  and  may  God 
make  him  kind  to  us." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  make  him  buy  the  laces.  Then  we'll 
have  two  big  pieces  of  money  to  take  to  father.  Won't 
he  be  glad  ?" 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Joseph,  leaving  Mary's 
side,  so  eager  was  he  to  show  his  power.  "  Won't  you 
buy  some  laces,  sir?" 

"  Buy  what  ?"  said  the  man  in  a  harsh  tone,  draw 
ing  down  his  brow  in  a  heavy  frown. 

"  Some  laces,  sir,"  replied  Joseph,  so  quickly  as  to 
prevent  Mary  from  answering. 

"  Laces,  sir,  laces.     Father  made  them." 

"  And  who  is  your  father  ?"  growled  the  man. 

"  His  name  is  John  Bunyari,  sir.  Don't  you  know 
him,  sir?  They  put  him  in  jail  because  he  would 
preach." 

"Yes,  and  they  ought  to  keep  him  there.  He  is  a 
vile  disturber  of  the  peace." 

Mary  felt  keenly  the  unkindness  of  the  man's  words 
and  voice,  and  would  fain  have  passed  on.  But 
Joseph,  although  his  ardor  was  somewhat  damped,  was 


220  MART    BUNYA3T. 

determined  not  to  yield  so  readily.  So  he  took  the 
basket  from  Mary,  and  going  up  to  the  man,  he  said 
boldly,  "  Here  they  are,  sir,  won't  you  buy  some  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  want  any  of  your  laces." 

"  Joseph,"  whispered  Mary.  But  the  little  fellow, 
all  eager  to  prove  the  truth  of  his  boast,  heeded  not 
the  softly-spoken  words. 

"  We've  got  no  bread  at  home,  and  mother  and  us 
children  will  starve  if  you  don't  buy  Mary's  laces,"  and 
the  little  fellow  looked  up  into  his  face  triumphantly, 
feeling  assured  this  speech  would  effect  his  purpose. 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  did.  You  and 
your  father,  and  all  such  trash,  and  then  we  would 
have  peace  in  the  kingdom.  I  want  none  of  your 
laces.  If  your  father  was  hiriig,  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  the  people." 

The  little  fellow  was  confounded.  He  could  say  no 
more,  but  burst  into  tears.  Silent  tears  were  streaming 
down  the  flushed  cheek  of  the  blind  child.  She  took 
her  brother  by  the  hand,  and  they  walked  away 
weeping, — the  two  poor,  suffering,  insulted  children. 
The  heartless  man  looked  after  them,  muttering 
between  his  teeth  imprecations  on  them  and  their 
father.  They  passed  into  a  side  street,  and  wandered 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where  a  few  poor  Baptists 
lived. 

"  You  see  Joseph,"  said  Mary,  as  they  walked  along, 
"  that  it  was  God  who  made  the  man  kind  to  us." 

He  was  convinced,  yet  unwilling  to  acknowledge 
his  conviction.  No  words  could  ever  have  presented 
so  strong  an  argument ;  and  he  learned  a  lesson  that 
day  which  he  never  forgot  in  after  years.  It  was  to 
him  a  proof  of  the  sovereignty  of  God  and  his  special 


THE   ANGEL   CHILD.  221 

providence,    which  no  logic  of  after-life  could   ever 
gainsay. 

They  went  from  house  to  house  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  town,  disposing  of  their  little  store  wherever  they 
could  find  a  purchaser.  They  wandered  on  from  place 
to  place — sometimes  receiving  a  penny  for  their  laces, 
at  other  times  only  a  kind  refusal — until  the  day  was 
well  spent.  Then  they  sat  them  down  on  the  step  of 
an  old  untenanted  house,  and  ate  their  dry  bread. 

"  If  Tom  was  big  like  that  young  man  from  London, 
he  could  work  and  make  us  bread,  couldn't  he,  Mary  ?" 
said  Joseph  to  his  sister,  as  they  sat  on  the  rickety 
doorstep  of  the  old  house. 

Mary's  countenance  instantly  lightened,  and  a 
gentle  blush  spread  over  her  pale  cheek. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  blind  girl,  letting  fall  on  her 
lap  the  delicate  hand  that  held  the  crust  of  bread. 
"  He  could  make  us  bread,  but  we  must  trust  in  God 
to  give  it  to  us  until  Tom  is  large  enough." 

Mary  spoke  the  words  almost  mechanically,  for  her 
mind  was  absorbed  with  another  idea.  She  was  trying 
to  think  just  how  large  the  young  man  from  London 
was,  and  how  he  appeared.  She  had  never  gazed 
upon  his  face,  but  she  knew  he  must  be  what  the 
world  calls  handsome,  for  his  voice  was  so  musical,  and 
there  was  in  his  tread  that  which  gave  to  her  a 
certainty  that  he  was  noble.  She  had  pictured  him  to 
herself,  his  every  feature,  his  every  expression,  his 
every  cha»ge  of  countenance.  But  how  should  she  be 
sure  she  was  right  ?  She  would  ask  Joseph. 

"  How  does  that  young  man  from  London  look, 
Joseph  ?  Is  he  tall,  and  what  is  the  color  of  his  hair 


222  MART   BUNYAN. 

and  eyes  ?    I  wish  I  could  see  him,"  she  said  to  herself. 
But  her  spirit  answered  "  Never,  never." 

"  Oh,  he  is  a  big  man,  Mary,"  replied  Joseph  enthusi 
astically,  for  "William  Dormer's  attention  to  him  during 
his  visit  had  served  to  enlist  his  heart  and  win  his 
warmest  admiration.  "  Broad,  like  father,  and  so 
pretty." 

"  You  mean  fine-looking,   Joseph,"  replied   Mary 
smiling  at  the  child's  earnestness. 

"  Yes,  he  looks  very  fine.     And  I  love  him  too." 

"  And  his  eyes  and  hair,  how  do  they  look  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  has  blue  eyes,  very  blue  eyes,  and  hair 
like  father's.  It.  is  blacker  than  father's,  but  it  aint  as 
black  as  mother's." 

Mary  caught  the  idea  in  a  moment.  It  was  just  as 
she  had  supposed.  "With  these  certain  outlines,  she 
could  fill  up  the  picture,  and  she  did  it,  making  it  as 
perfect  as  her  own  brilliant  imagination  could  do. 

This  is  one  advantage  the  blind  have  over  those  who 
have  sight.  We  see  imperfection  everywhere,  know 
things  as  they  are  really.  They  \w&  in  a  world  of 
their  own  creation,  and  its  beings  are  either  angels  or 
demons.  The  latter  they  drive  out  from  their  purview ; 
they  only  flit  across  their  horizon  like  a  frightful  phan 
tom,  and  are  gone  forever,  while  the  angels  ever 
remain,  filling  with  glory  and  gladness  the  ideal  land 
which  they  have  created. 

The  image  was  written  on  Mary's  soul.  It  never 
departed. 

Their  meal,  if  so  it  could  be  denominated,  was 
finished,  and  the  children  resumed  their  labor.  On 
they  went,  until  their  limbs  ached  and  their  hearts 
became  discouraged.  Thoughts  of  the  approving  smile 


THK    ANGEL    CHILD.  223 

and  kind  words  of  the  father,  and  the  happiness  and 
gratitude  of  the  mother,  had  nerved  them  to  their 
labor  when  they  were  well-nigh  ready  to  faint. 

"  See,  Mary,"  said  Joseph,  as  he  dragged  his  weary 
limbs  along,  "the  sun  is  almost  down.  I  want  to  go 
home.  I  am  so  tired." 

"  We  will  go  and  tell  father  what  we  have  done.  I 
wish  we  bad  sold  all  the  laces.  He  will  be  so  well 
pleased." 

"  "We've  sold  most  of  them,  Mary,  you  and  me,  hav'nt 
we  ?" 

The  blind  girl  passed  her  hands  rapidly  over  the 
contents  of  the  basket. 

"  Yes,  only  four  large  bunches  and  six  small  ones." 

"  And  we've  got  a  good  deal  of  money,  hav'nt  we, 
Mary  ?" 

"  Yes,  Joseph,  we  can  have  some  bread  now." 

"  And  can't  you  get  me  a  new  hat  and  some  new 
shoes,  and  you  some  too  2" 

"  Oh  no,  not  now.  "We  must  wait  for  these  things. 
For  mother's  sake,  and  little  Sarah's,  can't  you  2" 

The  little  fellow  hung  his  head.  It  was  quite  a 
struggle.  He  wished  so  much  for  the  new  hat. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  but  we'll  come  again 
soon,  and  father  will  have  a  basket  full  of  laces ;  and, 
it  may  be,  we'll  sell  them  all  and  get  plenty  of 
money." 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  doubting  reply. 

The  father  smiled,  as  the  children  told  him  of  their 
success ;  but  his  heart  was  pierced  sorely  as  Joseph 
repeated  to  him  the  cruel  words  of  the  heartless  shop 
keeper. 


224  MART   BUNYAN. 

"  God  bless  yon,  my  poor  children,"  said  he,  as  he 
pressed  them  to  his  bosom  and  kissed  them. 

The  children  passed  the  outer  gate,  and  hastened, 
angels  of  mercy  as  they  were,  to  throw  light  and  joy 
around  the  hearthstone  of  the  cottage  at  Elstow. 

"  "Will  you  go  to  London,  Mr.  Banyan  ?"  asked  the 
jailer  of  him  as  they  sat  conversing  together  in  the 
evening  twilight.  "  You  have  spoken  of  it  so  often, 
and  you  remember  you  told  me  yesterday  you  thought 
you  would  go  and  see  what  could  be  done  for  your 
cause." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  go.  I  must  leave  nothing  unturned 
that  promises  success.  My  family  can't  live  without 
me.  My  wife  and  children  will  starve  for  bread." 

"  "Well,  whenever  you  want  to  go,  let  me  know,  and 
I  will  see  you  get  out  of  jail.  I  will  risk  the  laws  of 
the  land  in  this." 

"  There  can  be  nothing  wrong  in  it,  sir.  I  am 
unlawfully  put  here  and  kept  here  ;  and  it  is  my  duty 
to  do  all  I  can  to  obtain  my  release.  I  am  going  next 
week." 

"  "Well,  I  hope  you  will  have  success,"  replied  the 
jailer,  as  he  drew  together  the  door  of  the  cell,  leaving 
it  unlocked.  "  If  I  can  help  you  I  will  as  much  as  is  in 
my  power.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Bunyan,  as  he  turned  to  the 
little  window,  to  gaze  out  on  the  noiseless  heavens  with 
their  setting  of  pale  solemn  stars. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   BLIND    GIRL'S   DREAM. 

THE  stars  are  keeping  their  silent  vigils  in  the  mid 
night  heavens.  The  moon,  as  from  a  full  urn,  pours  a 
flood  of  clear,  cold  radiance  over  the  hushed  earth. 
The  earth,  wrapped  in  death-like  stillness,  gently  repos 
es  in  the  flood  of  silver  light,  which  from  a  thousand 
hills  and  heights,  is  reflected  back  into  the  cold,  crisp 
air. 

The  little  village  of  Elstow  is  sunk  in  unbroken  still 
ness.  Not  a  sound  steals  out  to  disturb  the  deep,  dread 
silence.  From  every  hamlet  and  home-steading  the 
the  voice  of  busy  life  has  gradually  died  away  as  the 
angel  of  sleep  has  moved  on,  sealing  for  his  own  silent 
domain  those,  who,  through  the  day  just  closed,  have 
hoped,  and  feared,  and  toiled,  and  sighed.  And  now 
the  noiselessness  of  death  presides  over  every  hearth 
stone. 

'oSTeath  the  uncurtained  window,  just  where  the 
moonbeans  revealed  her  delicate  form  and.  angel  face 
the  blind  girl  lies  sleeping.  The  truckle-bed  in  which 
she  rests,  like  the  window,  is  all  uncurtained.  The  moon 
light  sweeps  in  through  the  window,.and  falls  in  show 
ers  of  silver  glory  over  the  tired  form  of  the  sleeper, 
and  on  across  the  uncarpeted  floor,  and  steals  up  the 
farther  wall,  higher  and  higher,  until  it  lights  up  with 

(225)  10* 


226  MARY   BUNYAN. 

its  brilliant  beams  the  whole  room.  In  the  quiet  cot 
tage  room  the  good  man's  family  rest.  They  have  com 
mitted  themselves  to  the  guardian  care  of  the  great 
Shepherd  of  Israel,  who  watcheth  over  all,  and  foldeth 
his  lambs  gently  to  his  bosom.  They  sleep  sweetly 
for  toil  makes  sweet  their  still  repose. 

Beside  the  sister  lies  the  little  Joseph.  They  have 
trudged  through  a  iveary  round  during  the  livelong 
day  to  procure  means  of  subsistence  for  the  mother 
and  children,  and  now  together  they  rest  their  aching 
limbs  on  the  same  narrow  bed.  A  beautiful  picture 
for  the  guardian  angels  to  look  upon. 

The  blind  girl  dreams.  A  smile  of  ineffable  beauty 
steals  over  her  worn  features,  and  lingers  in  sweetness 
around  her  rosy  mouth.  Her  lips  move  as  if  speaking. 
She  is  conversing  with  the  angels.  One  there  is  amid 
that  throng  moving  in  panoramic  vision,  clad  in  gar 
ments  of  light,  that  arrests  and  fixes  her  gaze.  She 
smiles  ;  her  lips  move  again  ;  she  pronounces  his 
name — it  is  William  Dormer. 

All  day  she  has  entertained  his  image  a  welcome 
guest  ;  and  now  that  she  rests,  he  comes  to  her  in 
dreams,  and  the  eyes  of  her  spirit  gaze  upon  him  en 
raptured.  She  could  not  see  him  by  day.  The  body 
held  in  subjection  the  soul.  But  now  sleep  has  come, 
and  unfettered  the  spirit,  and  it  soars  untrammeled 
through  the*  limitless  extent  of  the  universe,  and  dwells 
at  will  upon  the  ravishing  scenes  spread  out  before  it. 
Time  and  space  are  annihilated,  and  the  sealed  eyes 
are  unsealed. 

She  is  no  longer  a  child,  but  side  by  side  they  wan 
der  through  shaded  walks,  and  by  gently  murmuring 
streams,  while   visions   of  enchanting  loveliness  burst 


THE   BLIND    GIKL's    DEE  AM.  227 

at  every  turn  upon  their  ecstatic  view.  The  prison  is 
gone,  and  hunger  and  famine  are  fled  forever.  Her 
father  is  free,  and  the  mother  and  the  children  regale 
themselves  on  delicious  viands.  In  the  far-off  vista  is 
the  cottage  at  Elstow,  draped  in  the  most  beautiful 
surroundings.  She  is  in  another  realm,  where  all  is 
joy  and  happiness.  Pain,  and  trial,  and  suffering, 
shall  no  more  be  hers,  but  everlasting  peace  and  glad 
ness.  Surely  she  is  blest  now.  Intense  bliss  tills  her 
being.  The  vision  is  too  enrapturing  ;  she  awakes — 
to  find  herself  the  prisoner's  poor  blind  Mary — a  child 
of  sorrow,  nestled  in  her  low  truckle-bed,  beside  her  lit 
tle  weary  brother. 

The  pale,  silent  moon  looks  coldly  down.  The  face 
is  changed  in  its  expression.  The  angelic  smile  is 
gone ;  the  heavenly  beauty  has  faded  out  from  the  pale, 
face  and  sorrow  and  disappointment  mark  the  care-worn 
features.  Tears,  silent,  painful,  gather  in  the  darkened 
eyes,  and  course  unmarked,  save  by  the  guardian  angel, 
adown  her  thin,  pale  cheeks. 

Oh,  how  exquisitely  painful  is  it  thus  to  be  snatched 
from  the  very  pavilions  of  heaven  back  to  the  dull, 
deep  misery  of  earth  !  Fain  would  we  put  off  mortal 
ity,  to  escape  the  trial. 

Long,  weary  hours — almost  till  the  day-dawn — the 
poor  child  lies  there,  living  over  in  memory  the  beau 
tiful  vision.  She  dwells  upon  it  with  exquisite  delight. 
Shall  she  ever  realize  it  ?  She  asks  herself  the  ques 
tion  again  and  again.  There  comes  to  her  only  a  vague 
unsatisfactory  answer.  She  is  now  but  a  child — a  poor 
blind  child — and  her  father  is  in  prison.  She  has 
heard  that  in  heaven  the  blind  see,  and  I'll  go  by  and 
by.  "  I  must  wait  until  I  get  there,"  she  says  to  herself. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BUNYAN     VISITS     HIS     FAMILY. 

BUNYAN  was  permitted  by  his  jailer,  "  in  whose 
sight  he  found  favor,"  not  only  to  go  occasionally 
among  his  flock,  and  to  visit  his  family,  but  also  to  go 
to  London,  to  solicit  aid  from  the  Baptists  there,  in 
view  of  his  coming  trial,  which  was  to  take  place  at 
the  Assizes  in  1662. 

In  thus  permitting  Bunyan  to  go  about,  often  at  op 
tion,  the  jailer  certainly  transcended  the  limits  of  the 
law,  and  made  himself  amenable  thereto.  He  seems 
to  have  been  driven  to  his  leniency  by  the  exceeding 
great  injustice  and  severity  of  the  judges.  They  had 
violated  their  prerogative  by  insulting  Bunyan  and 
imprisoning  him  without  a  fair  trial.  He  violated  his 
by  granting  him  privileges  which  were  not  legally  in 
his  power  to  confer.  But  he  erred  on  the  side  of  mercy. 
Charles  had  issued  proclamations  in  favor  of  the  Non 
conformists,  and  the  judges,  in  the  face  of  these  proc 
lamations,  had  pronounced  sentence  on  Bunyan.  In 
showing  favors  to  him,  therefore,  the  jailer  was  only 
manifesting  his  confidence  in  the  king,  and  respect  for 
his  promises.  The  words  of  the  king  and  the  acts  of 
the  judges  were  contradictory,  very.  The  jailer  pre 
ferred  to  show  his  loyalty  by  following  the  former,  even 
while  it  subjected  him  to  the  hatred  and  persecution  of 


BUXYAN   VISITS    HIS    FAMILY.  229 

the  latter.  He  had  entire  reliance  in  his  prisoner's  integ 
rity.  Indeed  he  looked  upon  him  with  almost  supersti 
tious  awe,  which  was  increased  by  the  following  inci 
dent. 

"  It  was  known  to  some  of  the  persecuting  prelates," 
says  Ivimey,  the  historian  of  Bunyan,  "  that  he  was 
often  out  of  prison,"  through  the  leniency  of  the  jailer. 
So  they  determined  to  send  down  an  officer  to  see 
about  the  matter,  and  to  talk  with  the  jailer  about  this 
dereliction  of  duty  ;  and,  in  order  the  better  to  entrap 
him  the  officer  was  commanded  to  reach  Bedford  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  That  night  Bunyan  had  gone 
home  to  spend  with  his  family.  But  he  could  not  sleep  ; 
something  seemed  to  tell  him  to  go  back  to  his  cell. 
He  rose,  and  told  his  wife  "  he  must  return  immedi 
ately."  She  protested,  but  he  insisted,  and  departed. 
"  The  jailer  blamed  him  for  coming  in  at  so  unseason 
able  an  hour."  The  day  had  scarcely  dawned  before 
the  messenger  sent  by  the  prelates  arrived,  and  asked, 

"  Are  all  the  prisoners  safe  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  jailer,  while  a  slight  shudder 
passed  over  him  at  the  thought  of  his  narrow  escape 
from  danger. 

"  Is  John  Bunyan  safe  ?"  asked  the  messenger,  hop 
ing  to  catch  the  jailer  in  neglect  of  duty. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  jailer,  wondering  at  the  provi 
dence  that  led  Bunyan  back  to  jail  at  midnight. 

But  the  messenger  is  not  satisfied.  "  Let  me  see 
him,"  said  he,  hoping  he  could  not  be  produced.  But 
he  icas  produced,  and  all  was  well. 

The  messenger  left  disappointed.  When  he  was  gone 
the  jailer  turned  to  Bunyan  and  said  : 


230  MARY   BILNYAN. 

"  "Well,  you  may  go  out  again  when  you  think  proper, 
for  you  know  when  to  return  better  than  I  can  tell  you." 

This  incident,  so  well  calculated  to  impress  the  mind 
of  the  jailer  with  a  belief  in  the  supernatural  guidance 
which  directed  John  Bunyan,  occurred,  as  we  gather 
from  the  records,  before  his  trip  to  London.  Indeed, 
it  would  seem  very  reasonable  to  suppose  that  such  an 
occurrence  would  have  had  great  influence  in  inducing 
the  jailer  to  extend  his  grant  of  privilege. 

Preparatory  to  his  setting  out  for  London,  Bunyan 
goes  home  to  spend  the  night  with  his  wife  and  chil 
dren.  Let  us  follow  him  thither.  He  has  oftentimes 
in  the  silence  and  loneliness  of  his  cell  committed  his 
way  to  God,  beseeching  his  guidance  and  blessing  on 
the  undertaking  before  him.  And  he  would  now  kneel 
down  with  his  Elizabeth  and  his  four  helpless  children, 
that  they  may  together  supplicate  the  throne  of  mercy 
and  of  love.  He  goes  for  their  sakes  as  well  as  his 
own  ;  therefore  he  would  send  up  a  united  prayer  for 
success  in  his  effort.  Besides  he  wanted  the  advice  of 
his  wife,  on  whose  judgment  he  greatly  leaned.  She 
had  been  there  before  him,  and  although  she  had  been 
unsuccessful,  yet  he  could  profit  by  her  experience. 

The  declining  sun  saw  Bunyan  treading  the  mead 
ows  between  Bedford  and  Elstow,  with  earnest,  thought 
ful  face.  All  day  he  had  been  hard  at  work  tagging 
laces.  His  mind  had  been  filled  with  pressing  thoughts 
while  his  fingers  had  plied  his  daily  toil.  He  had 
brought  the  results  of  his  labor  with  him,  that  the 
blind  child  might  dispose  of  them  in  and  around  the 
village  of  Elstow. 

He  had  trod  these  same  meadows  and  the  narrow 
lane,  when  wrapped  in  his  cloak  of  self-righteousness  ; 


BDNYAN   VISITS   HIS   FAMILY. 

and,  strengthened  by  his  repentance  and  promises  to 
God  to  do  better,  "  he  pleased  God,"  so  he  thought,  "  as 
well  as  any  man  in  England."  He  was  a  "  brisk  talker" 
in  matters  of  religion  then,  he  himself  tells  us.  But 
alas  !  lie  was  only  a  talker.  lie  had  never  tasted  of 
the  grace  of  God,  which  makes  wise  unto  salvation. 
He  was  a  Pharisee,  and  despised  the  cross  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  On  reviewing  this  period  of  his 
life  in  after  years,  when  the  spirit  of  God  had  given 
him  a  new  heart,  he  pronounces  against  himself  in  this 
wise,  "  As  yet  I  was  nothing  but  a  poor  painted  hypo 
crite,  yet  I  loved  to  be  talked  of  as  one  that  was  truly 
godly.  I  was  proud  of  my  godliness,  and,  indeed,  did 
all  I  could  to  be  seen  or  well  spoken  of  by  men.  Poor 
wretch  as  I  was,  I  was  all  this  while  ignorant  of  Jesus 
Christ,  and  going  about  to  establish  my  own  righteous 
ness,  and  had  perished  therein  had  not  God  in  his  mercy 
showed  me  my  state  by  nature." 

And  he  had  wended  his  way  over  these  same  mead 
ows  when  the  voice  of  Sinai  thundered  in  his  ears,  and 
guilt  lay  heavy  upon  his  soul.  When  the  conversa 
tion  of  the  "  three  or  four  women  of  Bedford  sitting  at 
a  door  in  the  sun  talking  about  a  new  birth,"  had  fixed 
deep  in  his  heart  the  arrows  of  conviction,  so  that "  he 
made  it  his  business  to  be  going  again  and  again  into 
the  company  of  these  four  women 

'  Knitting  in  the  sun,' 

for  he  could  not  stay  away,"  until  his  mind  was  so 
fixed  on  eternity  and  on  the  things  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  that  neither  pleasures,  nor  profits,  nor  persua 
sions,  nor  threat  could  loose  it.  or  make  it  let  go  its 
hold.  And  here  he  had  experienced  that  great  joy 
that  made  him  desire  to  speak  of  the  love  of  God,  and 


MARY   BUNYAN. 

his  mercy  to  him,  even  to  the  very  crows  that  sat  in 
the  ploughed  lands  before  him. 

These  meadows  and  the  lane  had  witnessed  many  of 
his  severest  struggles,  his  joyous  and  joyless  reveries. 
Travelling  along  this  little  lane  one  day  "  the  tempta 
tion  is  put"  upon  him  to  say  to  the  puddles  in  the 
horse  pads  "  be  dry,"  and  to  the  dry  places  "  be  you 
puddles."  This  is  to  test  his  faith  ;  he  must  needs  work 
a  miracle  to  prove  to  him  whether  or  not  he  has  faith. 
But,  just  as  he  is  about  to  give  the  command,  the 
thought  comes  into  his  mind,  "  but  go  under  yonder 
hedge  and  pray  first  that  God  would  make  you  able." 
But  he  pauses  for  a  moment,  for  another  thought 
"  comes  hot"  upon  him  :  "  What  if  I  pray  and  try  to  do 
it,  and  yet  do  nothing  notwithstanding ;  then  to  be 
sure,  I  have  no  faith,  but  am  a  castaway  and  am  lost." 

All  these  trials  and  temptations  pass  in  rapid  review 
before  him  as  he  walks  along,  and  he  sees  in  them  the 
work  of  the  devil,  who,  in  times  past,  has  beset  him 
most  sorely.  He  has  journeyed  beyond  the  Slough  of 
Despond  now,  but  he  has  not  been  perfected  through 
sufferings.  Other  trials  are  hard  upon  him.  His  faith 
is  not  yet  sufficiently  matured  to  lay  hold  of  the 
exceeding  great  and  sure  promises,  and  make  them  his 
own.  A  veil  will  interpose  itself.  The  hand  of  God 
is  manifested  to  him,  but  his  purpose  is  hidden. 

He  reaches  the  little  close  in  front  of  the  cottage  just 
as  the  sun  sinks  in  the  western  horizon.  The  children 
see  him  and  run  out  to  meet  him.  His  Elizabeth 
comes  also,  but  her  step  is  more  sober  than  that  of  the 
children ;  not  that  her  heart  is  less  warm,  but  she  has 
a  graver  way  of  manifesting  her  love.  Her  face  is 
sober  too,  as  well  as  her  step.  Her  daily  cares  weigh 


BUNYAN   VISITS    HIS   FAMILY.  233 

heavily  upon  her,  and  sorrow  saps  her  joy.  Kindly 
greatinga  and  affectionate  words  are  exchanged.  The 
meal  is  spread  and  they  together  partake  of  the  homely 
food.  The  good  man  sees  the  board  is  scantily  sup 
plied  ;  his  heart  is  pained,  but  he  makes  no  notice  of  it. 
They  gather  round  the  fireside,  little  Sarah  on  one 
knee  and  Joseph  on  the  other.  The  blind  girl  sits 
near  him  with  her  hand  resting  on  his  shoulder,  and 
her  sightless  eyes  turned  to  his  face,  while  her  ears 
drink  in  eagerly  his  every  word.  He  sees  that  the 
expression  of  her  face,  too,  is  changed  ;  her  manner  is 
more  subdued  that  ever.  He  ascribes  it  to  her  trou 
bles.  He  cannot  read  the  many  thoughts  that  dream 
has  'given  rise  to.  His  faithful  Elizabeth  is  on  the 
other  side,  her  industrious  fingers  employed  in  work 
for  the  little  family.  Tom  sits  in  the  corner  where,  he 
can  see  them  all.  His  father's  \fords  have  a  chrarm 
for  him,  and  he  never  wearies  of  asking  him  questions. 
The  children  grow  sleepy  at  last,  and  must  be  put  to 
bed ;  but,  before  they  go,  the  father  kneels  in  their 
midst,  and  asks  tlie  blessing  of  God  upon  his  household. 
After  a  while  Thomas  gets  drowsy,  and  Mary  feels  that 
the  father  and  mother  wish  to  be  alone,  so  she 
quietly  steals  away  to  her  little  truckle  bed,  where  lit 
tle  Joseph  is  sleeping  ; — and  the  two  are  left  to  arrange 
their  plans  for  the  future. 

"  I  am  going  to  London  to-morrow,  Elizabeth.  I 
must  see  if  I  cannot  get  my  liberty.  I  think  if  I  could 
be  there  I  might  induce  the  Baptists  to  intercede  for 
me.  I  want  to  show  the  king  that  I  have  been  dealt 
unfairly  by,  and  it  may  be  God  will  put  it  into  his 
heart  to  release  me,  or  to  make  the  judges  give  a  new 
trial.  They  won't  give  me  a  hearing  at  the  next  Assi- 


234  MABY   BUNYAN. 

zee,  if  I  do  not  look  after  my  own  case.  They  will  do 
me  injustice  again." 

The  wife  sighed  as  she  thought  of  her  fruitless  effort. 
But  she  believed  her  husband  could  be  more  success 
ful  than  she  had  been,  and  she  advised  him  to  go. 

"The  Lord  prosper  you,  my  husband,"  she  said,  as 
he  made  an  end  of  unfolding  his  plans  to  her,  "  and 
give  the  king  mercy  towards  you.  These  cruel  men 
have  no  mercy.  They  would  take  your  life  from  you 
to  gratify  their  spite.  You  can't  hope  for  any  good  at 
their  hands,  and  if  the  king's  heart  is  not  moved  with 
pity,  they  will  leave  you  to  rot  in  that  old  jail." 

"  But  we  must  make  up  our  minds,  under  the  grace 
of  God,  to  bear  the  worst,  Elizabeth,  in  all  things 
enduring  hardness  as  good  soldiers  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  These  are  heavy  trials  we  are  passing  through, 
but  He  who  knows  best  puts  them  upon  us.  We 
cannot  fathom  his  wisdom,  but  we  know  that  his  love 
is  as  deep  as  it  is.  I  feel  hopeful  in  this  matter,  but  I 
would  not  deceive  myself.  Let  us  take  joyfully  what 
the  Lord  sends." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

BUNYAN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON. 

THE  day-dawn  had  scarcely  gilded  the  eastern 
horizon,  before  Bunyan  set  off  on  his  journey.  He 
had  no  time  to  lose.  A  great  work  was  before  him. 
Much  of  the  way  was  spent  in  prayer  to  God  for  the 
direction  of  His  spirit,  and  a  blessing  on  his  under 
taking.  A  few  who  met  him  in  the  road,  near  Bedford, 
knew  him.  They  were  surprised  to  see  him  at  liberty  ; 
but  in  him  they  saw  only  poor  John  Bunyan,  the 
tinker,  imprisoned  for  preaching  the  gospel.  They 
never  dreamed  that  there  walked  a  man  whom  future 
generations  would  rise  up  and  call  blessed  ;  one  whose 
fame  would  go  out  to  all  the  world,  and  his  mighty 
deeds  to  the  end  of  the  earth.  The  pious  of  them  no 
doubt  turned  their  eyes  reverently  to  heaven  while  they 
sent  up  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving  and  praise  that  their  lot 
was  so  much  better  than  that  of  the  poor  prisoner ;  while 
the  wicked  scoffed  and  turned  away  from  one  who  was 
called  by  them  a  "pestilent  fellow"  and  a  "poor  mad 
tinker"  But  he  was  a  glorious  martyr  for  the  truth  as  it 
is  in  Christ  Jesus.  He  knew  why  he  suffered.  He  could 
not  see  the  triumphant  result  of  these  sufferings,  and 
his  is  now  the  reward  "  of  patient  continuance  in  well 
doing," — even  eternal  life — the  life  that  was  to  come 
when  he  should  know  even  as  he  was  known, 

[235] 


236  MARY   BUNYAST. 

— "  and  he  shall  shine  as  the  stars  forever  and  ever," 
for  hath  he  not  turned  many  to  righteousness  ? 

On  reaching  London,  Bunyan  first  found  out  Eliza 
beth  Gaunt  and  William  Dormer.  By  her  he  was 
introduced  to  many  of  the  Baptists  of  the  city,  who 
afterwards  became  his  personal  friends,  giving  him  all 
the  assistance  in  their  power,  not  only  as  a  suppliant 
for  mercy  before  the  king's  bench,  but  as  an  author. 
Through  Mrs.  Gaunt,  he  became  acquainted  with 
Henry  Jessee,  "  a  man  whose  talents,  learning,  and 
philanthropy,  would  have  given  additional  weight  to 
any  good  cause.  lie  had  prepared  a  new  translation 
of  the  Scriptures,  and  was  an  almoner  of  the  poor  Jews 
in  Jerusalem,  as  well  as  the  most  influential  minister 
of  the  denomination. 

"  We  are  glad  to  see  you,  brother  Bunyan,"  said 
this  truthful  minister,  as  he  shook  the  hand  of  the 
prisoner.  "  Your  trials  and  sufferings  for  the  sake  of 
the  truth  have  reached  our  ears,  and  we  rejoice  that 
you  have  been  enabled  by  the  grace  of  God  to  possess 
your  soul  in  patience,  and  thereby  attest  his  love  and 
goodness  :  you  suffer  in  a  good  cause." 

"  God  has  most  wonderfully  stayed  me  up  under  my 
trials,  thanks  be  to  his  holy  name,"  replied  Bunyan. 
"  Had  it  not  been  for  his  all-abounding  grace, which  has 
strengthened  and  supported  me,  I  should  long  ago  have 
failed  under  my  burden." 

"  We  have  this  comfortable  assurance,  brother  Bun 
yan,  that  as  our  day  so  shall  our  strength  be  ;  you  have 
found  it  so ;  I  know  you  have,  for  it  is  the  promise  of 
God,  and  cannot  fail.  These  are  perilous  times  to 
this  nation,  for  men  have  become  fierce  despisers  of 
those  that  are  good,  having  a  form  of  godliness,  but 


BUNYAK'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON.  237 

denying  the  power  thereof.  Iniquity  is  enthroned  in 
high  places,  and  the  people  of  God  are  made  to 
murmur  because  of  the  oppressor.  The  prisons  are 
filled  with,  witnesses  for  the  truth,  and  the  hand  of 
persecution  is  laid  upon  those  who  would  live  uprightly 
in  the  midst  of  this  wicked  and  perverse  generation. 
How  long  this  state  of  things  will  last,  God  alone  can 
tell.  He  is  purging  his  people  ;  he  is  causing  them 
to  walk  through  the  furnace,  that  he  may  bare  his 
mighty  arm  in  their  rescue  from  the  flames.  But  his 
scourging  is  grievous,  and  we  are  made  to  cry  out, 
'  how  long,  oh  Lord,  how  long  before  thou  wilt  come 
for  our  deliverance  ?"  : 

"  We  are  told,  brother  Jessee,  that  '  all  who  will  live 
godly  in  Christ  Jesus,  shall  suffer  persecutions,  and 
evil  men  shall  wax  worse,  deceiving  and  being 
deceived.'  These  things  have  been  foretold,  therefore 
we  must  not  wronder  that  they  have  come  to  pass." 

"  Well,  how  is  the  state  of  things  with  you,  brother 
Bunyan?  Have  you  any  hope  that  you  will  find 
mercy  in  the  sight  of  the  king  ?" 

"  I  have  some  hope,  but  it  is  faint.  I  have  come  to 
London  to  see  what  can  be  done  towards  obtaining  my 
liberty.  I  was  unjustly  put  in  prison,  God  knows  I 
was.  My  enemies  snatched  me  up  and  clapped  me  in 
jail.  They  would  give  me  no  chance  for  my  freedom  ; 
and  when  my  wife  went  before  them  to  plead  for  me, 
they  heaped  harsh  words  upon  her,  and  would  not  lis 
ten  to  her. 

"  How  are  the  saints  getting  on  in  the  country, 
brother  Bunyan  ?  We  hear  fearful  accounts  of  the 
treatment  they  receive  at  the  hands  of  their  enemies." 

"  But  little  do  I  know  of  how  the  times  fare  with  them. 


238  MARY   BUNYAN. 

The  jail  at  Bedford  is  filled  with  our  brethren  who 
have  cried  aloud  against  the  sins  of  the  Mother  of 
Harlots  and  of  her  offspring." 

"  The  times  are  fearful  here,  in  this  sinful  city,  my 
brother.  Commotions  and  strifes  and  fiendish  treachery 
and  malice  reign  among  those  who  are  in  power,  and 
the  righteous  are  trodden  down,  and  there  is  none  to  re 
dress  their  wrongs.  The  king  is  playing  the  part  of  jug 
gler  to  the  Dissenters.  Our  Mayor  is  harrassing  our 
people  in  every  way  that  his  hellish  ingenuity  can  in 
vent.  It  seems  that  Satan  is  let  loose  to  destroy  the 
children  of  God,  and  bring  contempt  on  the  heritage 
of  the  Lord." 

"  And  can  no  one  lift  up  a  voice  in  defence  of  God's 
own  elect,  when  blood  crieth  from  the  ground.  Is 
there  none  to  avenge  them  ?  Oh,  when  will  these  things 
come  to  an  end  !" 

"  Our  Mayor  is  fierce  and  cruel,  my  brother.  His 
delight  is  to  torment  the  children  of  God.  He  pur 
sues  them  as  a  lion  does  his  prey.  He  seeks  them  in 
their  homes,  and  in  the  by-ways,  and  brings  them  to 
speedy  trial.  They  can  find  no  refuge  from  his  bloody 
vengeance  and  his  determined  hatred.  He  gloats  over 
the  blood  of  the  saints,  for  his  desire  is  to  cut  them 
off  from  the  earth.  His  name  has  become  a  by-word 
for  cruelty  even  among  those  who  despise  the  Noncon 
formists.  They  say  the  '  devil  has  ceased  to  be  black 
and  has  become  BROWN.'  ': 

"  And  does  no  one  lift  up  a  hand  to  stay  the  current 
of  iniquity  ?  Surely  God's  people  should  stand  up 
when  his  enemies  come  in  like  a  flood.  O  God,  raise 
up  some  standard  bearef  that  will  carry  the  word  of 


BUNYAN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON.  239 

truth  and  righteousness  into  the  domain  of  the  man  of 
sin." 

u  There  is  a  bi»other,  Henry  Adis,  who  is  preparing  a 
thunderbolt  for  this  Brown,  together  with  the  other 
magistrates  of  the  city.  He  calls  it  '  Thunder  to  Brown 
the  Mayor,  by  one  of  the  sons  of  Zion  become  a  Bo 
anerges.'  " 

"  And  will  this  bring  about  any  good  ?  "Will  the 
magistrates  heed  it  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.  The  Lord  grant  that  it  may  do  much 
good  in  opening  the  eyes  of  this  people,  to  see  the  great 
wrongs  which  do  shame  this  land.  But  they  are  so  be 
sotted  in  sin  there  is  but  little  hope.  God  have 
mercy,  (rod  have  mercy  on  them."  And  the  old  min 
ister's  face  lighted  up  with  the  intensity  of  the  emo 
tion  that  filled  his  bosom. 

"  I  would  see  this  brother  before  I  leave  ;  God  speed 
him  in  his  work,  and  may  it  be  eft'ectual  in  upsetting 
the  plans  of  all  who  would  bring  to  naught  the  truth 
as  it  is  in  Jesus." 

"  Amen,  amen  !— Will  you  see  the  King  about  your 
case  before  you  leave,  Bro.  Bunyan  ?" 

"  I  do  greatly  desire  to  do  so,  if  it  will  but  promote 
my  cause.  I  would  leave  nothing  untried  to  secure 
my  liberty.  My  wife  and  four  little  ones  do  perish  for 
bread,  while  I  lay  housed  up  in  this  cold,  damp  jail — 
put  there  and  kept  there  by  the  enemies  of  God.  But 
I  would  have  your  opinion  about  it.  I  came  here  to 
consult  my  brethren.  I  want  to  use  the  best  means 
I  am  in  a  strait.  I  don't  know  how  to  go  on." 

"  If  you  can  obtain  audience  of  the  King,  then  it 
may  be  well.  But  this  godless  monarch  is  so  given 
up  to  his  sports  and  his  vices,  that  he  has  lost  all  care 


240  MAKY    BUNYAN. 

for  his  kingdom.  He  i'eels  that  his  fish,  in  the  lakes 
and  ponds,  are  of  infinitely  more  value  than  the  souls 
of  Dissenters  and  Nonconformists.  And  lie  would  not 
lose  one  hour  from  tenn  is  if  the  interest  of  this  whole 
realm  were  at  stake.  His  entire  indifference  to  the 
affairs  of  state,  is  shameful  and  fearful." 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  but  little  hope  in  making 
application  to  his  majesty?" 

"  You  can  but  try.  The  thing  is  uncertain.  Albeit  it 
cannot  make  your  condition  worse.  I  will  go  with  you 
to  consult  our  wisest  brethren,  and  whatsoever  is  best 
we  must  do." 

From  house  to  house  the  two  men  went,  that  the}7 
might  obtain  the  opinions  and  views  of  those  calculated 
to  advise.  It  was  deemed  prudent  after  close  consul 
tation,  to  present  a  petition  to  the  King,  through  two 
of  Banyan's  friends.  It  was  feared  lest  his  presence 
might  stir  up  feelings  of  opposition,  seeing  that  he 
had  left  the  jail  without  permission,  and  come  down  to 
London. 

Some  of  the  Baptists  of  the  city  were  to  be  guarded 
against.  Suspicion  rested  upon  them,  and  therefore, 
it  became  necessary  for  Bunyan  to  be  very  circum 
spect  in  his  movements,  and  not  to  be  known  as 
associated  with  them,  or  to  be  in  any  way  connected 
with  them.  Unfortunately  a  few  of  them  were  "Fifth 
Monarchy  men,"  and,  of  course,  detested  by  the  Court 
and  Cabinet.  They  also  placed  under  suspicion  the 
whole  denomination,  whose  movements  were  watched 
with  lynx  eyes  by  the  enemies  of  the  Nonconformists. 

Bunyan  was  soon  convinced,  from  his  associations 
with  his  brethren,  and  from  such  information  as  he 
could  casually  pick  up,  that  the  Court  was  in  such  a 


BUNYAN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON.  241 

state  of  profligacy,  and  there  was  also  such  hatred  to 
all  who  did  not  subscribe  to  the  prevailing  religion, 
that  it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  apply,  in  person, 
for  change  or  mitigation  of  the  sentence  under  which 
he  was  suffering.  He  had  no  influence  at  Court. 
Indeed,  his  presence  there  would,  it  was  supposed,  act 
unfayorably  to  his  cause.  He  would  be  looked  upon 
as  one  who  disregarded  all  law,  and  set  at  defiance  the 
acts  of  those  in  rule.  Charles  was  by  no  means  a 
stickler  for  law  or  order,  but,  being  the  dupe  of  design 
ing  men,  and  the  slave  of  his  own  whims,  it  was  feared 
lest  the  presence  of  Bunyan  should  give  rise  to  some 
caprice,  by  which  his  object  would  be  entirely  frus 
trated. 

Bunyan  felt  most  dreadfully  disappointed  at  the 
seemingly  necessary  result  of  his  mission.  He  was  so 
fully  possessed  writh  a  sense  of  the  justice  of  his  cause, 
that  he  had  come  to  believe  that  if  he  could  only  have 
an  opportunity  of  presenting  his  own  case,  the  result 
must  be  all  that  could  be  desired.  He,  in  this,  shows 
his  ignorance  of  the  then  existing  state  of  the  affairs 
of  the  realm.  He  had  only  read  Charles'  "  Proclama 
tions."  He  knew  nothing  of  that  man,  as  he  really 
was — given  up  to  the  indulgence  of  every  passion, 
rioting  in  an  excess,  disgusting  and  destroying. 

After  much  consultation  and  prayer,  it  was  decided 
that  "William  Kiffin  and  Richard  Pilgrim  should 
present  a  suitable  petition  to  the  king,  at  such  a  time 
as  seemed  most  likely  to  secure  success  to  their  cause. 
William  Kiffin  was  a  Baptist  minister,  a  man  of  wealth 
and  influence,  and  highly  respected  by  all  classes. 
He  was  instrumental  in  obtaining  a  reprieve  for  twelve 
persons,  who  had  been  sentenced  to  death  at  Ayles- 


242  MART   BUNYAN. 

bury.  It  was,  therefore,  supposed  that  a  request  from 
him  would  be  regarded.  Richard  Pilgrim,  though  of 
the  Millenarian  party,  was  yet  too  obscure  to  arouse 
any  suspicion.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  sense  and 
pleasing  address,  and  was,  therefore,  selected  to 
accompany  Mr.  Kiffin. 

"  How  has  the  Lord  prospered  your  cause  to-day, 
Bro.  Bunyan  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Gaunt,  as  he  came  in,  after 
a  very  hard  day's  labor.  "  Has  your  petition  gone 
before  the  King  yet  ?" 

"  ]STo.  The  brethren  have  concluded  to  wait  for  a 
more  favorable  opportunity  than  the  present.  The 
King  is  so  engaged  with  his  routs  and  plays,  and  wan 
ton  exercises,  as  to  have  no  time  for  other  matters." 

"  You  will  not  go  home  till  you  see  what  will  come 
of  it,  then,  wil^  you  ?" 

"  I  must  go  to-morrow.     My  time  is  at  an  end." 

"  What,  go  back,  Bro.  Bunyan,  and  nothing  done  ? 
You  ought  to  make  one  attempf,  if  no  more." 

"  The  brethren  tell  me  it  would  not  do  to  present 
myself  before  the  King.  It  would  only  chafe  him." 

"  And  will  you  do  nothing  at  all  to  obtain  your 
freedom  ?" 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could.  I  must  trust  the  rest  to 
J->ro.  Kiffin  and  Richard  Pilgrim." 

"  And  so  you  go  back  as  you  came  ?  What  sad 
news  it  will  be  to  your  poor  wife  and  children  !" 

We  must  trust  in  God,  sister  Gaunt.  These  things 
sire  all  in  his  hands.  If  he  sees  tit  to  keep  me  in  jail, 
it  is  for  some  wise  purpose.  If  bonds  and  imprison 
merits  are  my  lot,  I  must  learn  to  rejoice  in  afflictions. 
I  am  a  man  encompassed  by  infirmities,  and  sometimes 
my  faith  grows  weak,  but  the  Spirit  enables  me  to 


BUNYAN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON.  243 

build  myself  up  in  the  promises,  until  at  last  I  get  a 
comfortable  assurance  of  the  hand  of  God  in  all  my 
afflictions,  and  then  all  is  well  with  me,  so  long  as  this 
confidence  lasts." 

"  But  you  will  not  go  back  to  prison  when  you  go 
home,  Bro.  Bunyan  ?  You  will  wait  until  this  matter 
is  settled  for  you  ?" 

"  I  will  go  back  to  prison  and  stay  there  until  the 
question  is  decided.  I  must  not  bring  in  danger  the 
kind  jailer,  \vho  granted  me  the  liberty  to  come  down 
to  London." 

"  And  you  will  go  back  ?  Well,  that's  right.  We 
must  be  willing  to  seal  our  testimony  with  our  blood. 
The  Lord  give  you  grace  to  follow  him  in  all  his  ways." 

The  prisoner's  heart  was  very  heavy  as  he  wended 
his  way  from  the  metropolis  ;  from  an  elevation  on  the 
road,  he  paused  to  look  back  upon  the  city — the  seat 
of  sin  and  iniquity,  of  every  uncleanness  and  enor 
mity.  Bitter  reflections  filled  his  mind  and  stirred  up 
his  blood,  as  he  thought  of  the  shame  and  suffering, 
the  contumely  and  reproach,  the  children  of  God  were 
day  by  day  exposed  to,  to  gratify  the  cruel  hatred  and 
the  unrestrained  iniquity  of  a  profligate  King  and  his 
heartless  courtiers.  "  How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  !" 
he  exclaimed,  "  shall  the  Evil  One  reign  triumphant  ? 
How  long  shall  the  mother  of  Harlots  and  her  iniqui 
tous  offspring  drink  up  the  blood  of  the  saints  ?  Make 
haste,  O  Lord,  to  deliver  us  !  Make  bare  thine  arm  in 
the  eyes  of  the  nation  !  Oh,  be  pleased  to  help  us,  and 
that  right  speedily  !  Oh,  rescue  thy  chosen  from  the 
hands  of  the  oppressor  !  Deliver  thy  darling  from 
destruction  !" 

Bunyan    was    sorely  disappointed  ;  and  his   great 


244  MART   JitTNYAK. 

heart,  usually  so  brave,  so  full  of  fortitude  and  of  dar 
ing,  sunk  within  him.  His  physical  strength  was  im 
paired.  Close  confinement  and  unhealthy  diet  had 
made  great  inroads  on  his  naturally  vigorous  constitu 
tion.  The  hope  that  had  buoyed  up  his  drooping  spir 
its  so  long,  was  completely  wrecked.  All  the  rigors 
of  a  winter's  confinement  were  staring  him  in  the  face, 
and  the  suffering  and  exposure  to  which  his  family 
must  be  subjected,  filled  up  to  the  very  brim  the  bit 
ter  cup,  which  he  must  now  drain  to  the  dregs. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  light  that  came  glancing  ath 
wart  the  gloom.  Kiffin  and  Pilgrim  might  succeed 
with  the  petition  ;  if  so  he  would  rejoice  in  his  past 
trials,  for  he  felt  that  they  had  wrought  a  good  work 
in  him,  having  added  to  his  temperance  patience,  and 
to  patience  godliness — so  that,  in  the  knowledge  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  he  was  neither  barren  or  unfruit 
ful.  He  weighed  carefully  all  the  probabilities  against 
the  improbabilities,  and  finally  concluded  that  his  pros 
pect  was  still  a  fair  one.  He  knew  his  own  innocence 
so  well,  that  he  felt  it  was  impossible  that  the  King 
should  not  be  convinced  of  the  great  wrong  done  him. 
How  often  we  reason  thus,  but  how  fallacious  the 
reasoning.  Bunyan  did  not  know  Charles  ;  and,  here- 
lied  on  the  favorable  proclamations  he  had  issued  ;  he 
did  not  realize  that  these  provisions  were  made  only 
for  the  purpose  of  establishing  their  false  giver  the 
more  securely  in  power. 

The  road  appeared  long  and  weary  to  the  traveler. 
He  carried  in  his  heart  the  burden  of  sore  disappoint 
ment.  When  he  reached  his  house,  his  faithful  wife  read 
in  his  countenance  the  failure  of  his  mission.  She  made 
every  endeavor  to  soothe  and  comfort  him.  While 


BUNTAN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDOX.  245 

her  own.  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a  thousand  ar 
rows,  she  strove  to  speak  words  of  cheer  to  her  des 
pairing  husband. 

The  next  day  Bunyan  went  back  to  the  jail.  As  he 
reached  the  outer  gate,  he  met  his  jailer.  Their  eyes 
met,  each  read  in  the  countenance  of  the  other  a  tale 
of  distress.  The  jailer  handed  him  a  document;  he 
paused  and  looked  over  it. 

"  God  knows  it  is  a  slander  that  I  went  down  to  Lon 
don  to  make  or  plot  an  insurrection,  or  to  sow  divis 
ions." 

"  Yes,  that  it  is  false,  Mr.  Bunyan,  I  know  it  is,"  said 
the  sympathizing  jailer.  "  But  you  see  what  they  say 
here  in  these  directions,  '  He  must  no  longer  look  out 
at  the  door.'  If  I  disobey  them  now,  my  life  will  be 
the  forfeit." 

The  jailer  spoke  in  the  tones  of  the  deepest  compas 
sion.  He  loved  and  respected  the  prisoner,  and  fain 
would  have  granted  him  his  liberty. 

"  There  is  but  one  hope  left,"  exclaimed  Bunyan, 
with  a  sorrow  he  had  never  before  felt — it  was  for  the 
moment  almost  despair — "  and  that  is  to  get  my  name 
in  the  calendar  of  felons  for  the  next  Assizes,  that  I 
may  get  a  hearing.  This  is  all  that  is  left  me  now." 
And  this  effort  to  be  heard  before  the  Assizes  of  1662 
was  the  last  attempt  Bunyan  made  to  extricate  himself 
from  the  unjust  sentence  of  his  heartless  judges. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE    BLIND    G I  R.  L    IN    LONDON. 

THE  prison  doors  have  been  closed,  and  the  seal  of 
tyranny  placed  thereon.  Bunyan  can  no  longer  visit 
his  little  family,  or  mingle  privily  among  his  brethren 
in  their  meetings  of  prayer.  Ten  long,  lonely  years 
must  roll  their  weary  round,  before  he  shall  again 
come  forth  from  his  dark,  chill  cell,  to  liberty  and  to 

j°y- 

Hard,  hard  fate  !  we  exclaim.  But  God,  in  wisdom, 
ordered  it.  His  decrees  are  immutable,  and  he  works 
all  things  "  according  to  the  counsel  of  his  own  will." 
What  matters  it,  then,  where  we  are,  or  what  we  suffer, 
if  we  are  found  in  Christ  Jesus  ?  All  things,  however 
calamitous,  are  working  for  our  good.  "VVe  are  fulfil 
ling  the  behests  of  Him  who  knoweth  the  end  from 
the  beginning,  and  is  hastening  on,  through  his 
children  as  feeble  instrumentalities,  that  glorious  time, 
"when  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  shall  become  the 
kingdoms  of  the  Lord  and  of  his  Christ,  and  he  shall 
reign  forever  and  ever."  "  Let  all,  therefore,  who 
suffer  persecution  and  trial,  possess  their  souls  in 
patience,  yea,  rejoice  in  afflictions,  watching  and 
praying,  looking  for  and  hasting  unto  the  coming  of 
the  day  of  God."  "  Blessed  is  he  that  watcheth,"  and 
he  "  that  endureth  temptation,  for  when  he  is  tried,  he 

(246) 


THE   BLIND   GIRL   IN   LONDON.  '24:7 

shall  receive  the  crown  of  life,  which  the  Lord  hath 
promised  to  them  that  love  him." 

We  must,  for  a  time,  bid  farewell  to  Bunyan.  "We 
shall  come  again  to  look  at  him  in  his  noisome  cell, 
there  to  find  him  engaged  in  writing  that  book,  which 
next  to  the  Bible,  has  instructed  all  succeeding  genera 
tions  in  the  things  pertaining  to  eternal  life. 

It  is  1665.  Charles  has  been  seated  five  years  on 
the  throne  of  his  fathers.  These  five  years  have 
witnessed  cruelties,  outrages,  and  profligacies  unparal 
leled  in  all  the  preceding  history  of  the  kingdom.  The 
Court,  following  the  example  of  the  dissolute  monarch 
has  given  itself  up  to  unlimited  indulgence  in  vice  and 
crime.  Pleasure  is  goddess  of  the  realm,  and  reigns 
supreme.  Her  votaries  throng  the  palace  and  the 
parliament,  and  govern  every  class  of  society.  London 
is  crowded  with  those,  wrho,  eager  to  follow  the 
example  of  a  popular  monarch,  have  congregated 
together  to  yield  themselves  up  to  whatever  vicious 
amusement  his  prestige  has  rendered  noted.  He  has 
but  to  speak,  and  thousands  catch  up  his  words  to  echo 
them  through  the  land.  Never  had  there  been  before, 
never  has  there  been  since,  a  monarch  so  puissant  in 
his  weakness,  so  arbitrary  in  all  neglect  of  rule,  as  was 
Charles  II.  of  England.  Never  has  the  world  seen  a 
Court  and  nation  so  given  over  to  excess,  lascivious 
folly  and  vice,  as  was  the  court  of  St.  James  and  the 
English  nation,  during  his  reign. 

It  is  London — London  with  its  teeming  myriads,  its 
wealth  and  poverty,  its  joy  and  misery,  its  worship 
and  its  vice,  its  crowded  thoroughfares,  where  magni 
ficence  moves  in  royal  trappings,  and  its  low,  damp 


248  MARY   BUNYAN. 

alleys    of    crime,   where    bestiality,   and    want,    and 
wretchedness  dwell,  familiar  inmates  of  many  a  hovel. 

The  stirring  sounds  of  busy  life  and  activity  ever  go 
up  from  the  numberless  thousands  who  throng  its 
streets  and  crowd  its  myriad  haunts. 

The  blind  girl  pauses,  as  the  din  of  the  mighty  city 
falls  upon  her  delicately  attuned  ear.  She  cannot  see 
it,  but  she  feels  it — its  power  and  vastness  overwhelm 
her  soul.  It  is  the  very  spot  on  which  her  mother 
stood  three  years  before,  to  cast  a  last  look  upon  the 
city,  wherein  dwelt  those  who  had  locked  the  prison- 
doors  upon  her  husband,  and  refused  to  open  them 
because  he  was  a  proclaimer  of  the  gospel  of  the  Son 
of  God. 

The  blind  girl  is  a  child  no  longer.  The  blush  of 
womanhood  is  upon  her  cheek,  and  its  presence  may 
be  seen  in  her  rounded  form,  and  tall,  graceful  figure. 
The  feeble  delicateness  of  childhood  had  given  away 
to  the  strength  and  symmetry  of  riper  years  ;  and  the 
excessive  sensitiveness,  which  caused  her  to  shrink  from 
every  touch,  has  been  gradually  supplanted  by  a  con 
sciousness  of  her  own  powers  and  responsibilities.  But 
she  is  shrinking  still.  And  as  she  feels  the  vast  me 
tropolis  before  her  she  stops  suddenly,  and  grasps  tightly 
the  hand  of  the  countryman  by  her  side,  With  an 
expression  of  wonder,  mingled  with  fear,  she  turns  her 
sightless  face  up  to  his.  The  color  mounts  her  temples, 
and  spreads  itself  across  her  marble  brow.  Her  being 
thrills  with  wild  and  strange  emotions.  But  no  sound 
escapes  her  partly  opened  lips. 

Neighbor  Harrow  speaks  words  of  soothing  kindness 
to  calm  her  excited  bosom.  She  holds  his  hand  more 
firmly,  and  presses  more  nearly  to  him.  Her  closelr 


THE   BLIND   umt,  JOT   LONDON.  249 

fitting  bonnet  shuts  out  from  the  eyes  of  the  passers- 
by  her  beautiful  face  with  its  ever-varying  color.  Her 
kerchief  is  of  snow-white,  and  the  nobleman  who 
dashes  by,  turns  his  head  to  look  on  that  symmetrical 
form,  so  plainly,  yet  so  chastely  clad,  which,  with  mod 
est,  lady-like  air,  keeps  pace  with  the  rough  country 
man  at  her  side. 

The  sun  shines  softly  down  from  the  western  sky, 
and  throws  a  golden  light  over  the  landscape,  as  the 
weary  travelers  descend  the  long  hill  which  i'eads  to 
the  suburbs  of  the  mighty  city.  Its  beams  are  reflected 
back  in  dazzling  radiance  from  the  countless  spires  and 
gilded  turrets.  The  evening  breeze  sweeps  gently  by, 
and  fans  with  grateful  coolness  the  flushed  cheek  of 
the  blind  maiden.  The  scene  is  one  of  loveliness. 
Mary  feels  its  beauty,  but  she  is  too  much  excited  to 
dwell  upon  it.  Neighbor  Harrow  has  but  little  taste 
for  such  things.  He  has  seen  the  sun  shine  so  often, 
has  beheld  so  many  landscapes,  over  which  the  god  of 
day  poured  in  boundless  magnificence  his  flood  of 
golden  glory,  that  his  heart  is  altogether  untouched  by 
the  view  around  him.  He  is  thinking  of  London,  nof 
of  nature  and  her  charms.  It  has  been  many  a  Ion 
year  since  his  feet  trod  the  streets  of  the  great  capita, 
arid  he  is  wondering  at  the  changes  which  have  bee. 
made,  since  with  the  elasticity  and  ardor  ot"  youth  he 
had  made  his  way  through  her  principal  thorough 
fares.  His  step  is  no  longer  buoyant  ;  his  heart  feels 
the  chill  of  time,  and  an  indistinct  sensation  of  the 
great  change  in  himself  passes  through  his  bosom.  He 
entertains  it  but  for  a  moment.  He  is  a  matter-of-fact 
old  mau,  and  can  find  no  time  for  fancies  and  old  re 
membrances. 

11* 


250  MARY   BUNYAN. 

An  hour  more  and  our  travelers  are  in  London,  in 
quiring  the  way  to  William  Kiffin's,  the  preacher. 
Mary  presses  close  to  the  side  of  Neighbor  Harrow, 
as  they  tread  the  busy  marts  of  trade.  Her  wardrobe 
is  tied  up  in  a  square  cloth,  which,  during  the  journey, 
she  had  sometimes  carried  to  relieve  the  kind  old  man 
who  acted  as  her  guardian. 

After  much  inquiry  and  great  difficulty,  the  street  is 
found,  and  the  two  travelers,  dusty  and  worn,  stand  be 
fore  one  of  the  best  houses  in  London.  There  the 
passers-by  look  upon  them  as  supplicants  for  charity, 
but  they  are  not.  They  feel  that  they  have  claims  on 
the  good  man  whose  presence  they  seek.  They  be 
long  to  the  same  great  brotherhood  with  him,  and,  be 
cause  of  this  connection,  they  regard  themselves  as  en 
titled  to  his  attention.  They  know  but  little  ubout  the 
conventionalisms  of  society,  of  the  distinction  which 
mere  wealth  makes.  They  know  that  William  Kiffin 
is  not  a  king,  nor  a  Lord,  but  a  Baptist  preacher,  like 
John  Bunyan,  who  has  long  been  incarcerated  in  the 
jail  at  Bedford. 

They  see  the  great  and  good  Kiffin,  who  receives 
them  with  expressions  of  the  warmest  friendship,  and 
presses  upon  them  to  make  his  house  their  home. 

But  they  cannot  accede  to  his  kind  wishes.  They  must 
find  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  for  Mrs.  Bunyan  has  told  Mary 
that  this  must  be  her  home  while  she  stays  in  London. 
The  good  man's  carriage  is  at  the  door.  He  gets  into 
it,  and  accompanies  them  in  search  of  Mrs.  Gaunt. 
He  knows  her  well,  as  an  humble,  true  disciple  of 
their  Lord  and  Master.  She  is  a  member  of  a  church 
*o  which  he  sometimes  preaches,  and  her  seat  in  the 
House  of  God  is  never  vacant,  save  when  sickness  keeps 


THE   BLIND   GIKL   IN   LONDON.  25 

her  away.  And  he  has  met  her  oftentimes,  too,  in  hia 
visits  to  the  poor  and  distressed  of  the  Baptist  brother 
hood.  JBer  deeds  of  charity  and  love  are  well  known 
to  him,  and  her  praise  is  on  his  lips. 

At  last  they  find  her  in  her  little  home,  plain  and 
•poor,  in  Drury  Lane.  They  are  directed  there  by  one 
who  has  for  a  long  time  been  a  recipient  of  her  kind 
ness,  of  her  words  of  hope  and  encouragement.  It  is  a 
poor  Baptist  brother,  whose  family,  sick  and  friendless, 
have  been  watched  over  and  provided  for  by  the  un 
tiring  efforts  and  attention  of  this  most  excellent  wo 
man,  who  "  careth  for  the  things  of  the  Lord." 

She  knows  the  good  Mr.  Kiffin,  and  is  very  glad  to 
see  him.  She  does  not  recognize  Mary,  for  it  has  been 
three  years  since  they  have  met,  and  in  that  time  the 
blind  girl  has  grown  to  be  a  young  lady.  Her  appear 
ance  is  much  changed,  but  the  same  sweet,  sad  smile, 
lights  up  the  darkened  face.  This  Mrs.  Gaunt  recalls 
in  a  moment,  as  the  young  girl  is  introduced  to  her  by 
the  minister.  The  two  are  received  with  every  mark 
of  affection  and  kindness.  The  hours  pass  on  and  tea 
time  arrives.  Mary  has  been  momently  expecting  the 
entrance  of  William  Dormer. 

For  three  long  years  his  image  has  been  enshrined  in 
the  secret  temple  of  her  heart.  Her  lips  have  but 
rarely  pronounced  his  name  ;  but  her  being  has  thrilled 
when  that  name  has  fallen  upon  her  ear  from  other  lips. 
His  voice,  full  and  clear,  has  made  . lisa  music  to  her  soul 
as  its  farewell  cadences  have  been  Couched  by  the  hand 
of  undying  memory.  And  the  farewell  pressure  ?  Ah  ! 
she  has  felt  it  on  that  thin  frail  hand  through  every 
moment  of  their  separation.  She  has  seen  him  with 
the  sublimated  vision  of  her  soul's  etherial  sight, 


252  MAEY  BDKYAW. 

through  every  waking  moment  since  he  first  stood  in 
the  cottage  door  at  Elstow  a  guest  of  its  humble  roof. 
And  in  her  night  dreams,  when  the  closed  eyes  were 
unsealed,  she  had  gazed  on  him  with  wrapt  adoration 
^s  they  wandered  hand  in  hand  through  the  realms  of 
oeauty  and  bliss.  ISTeed  we  ask  what  thought  had 
been  uppermost  in  her  mind  since  her  father  had  re 
quested  her  to  go  to  London  and  see  the  King  in  his 
behalf?  Even  the  great  object  of  her  mission  was 
sometimes  lost  sight  of  in  the  one  feeling  that  pos 
sessed  her  soul,— that  of  hearing  again  that  voice  and 
feeling  that  presence  which  had  stirred  in  her  being's 
depths  emotions  which  only  the  hand  of  death  could  still. 

A  step  as  of  a  man  is  heard  on  the  door-stoop.  She 
starts  and  listens  intensely.  The  blood  rushes  in  rapid 
roll  to  her  brow  and  temples.  She  trembles  with  bliss 
ful  expectation.  A  moment  more  and  she  will  hear 
that  voice  pronounce  her  name.  Agitated  she  turns 
in  the  direction  of  the  open  door.  It  is  only  the  ba 
ker's  boy  come  with  the  bread  for  the  evening  meal. 

Her  heart  sinks  within  her.  Ah,  cruel  disappoint 
ment  !  Alpine  torrents  are  summer's  genial  showers 
compared  with  thy  waves  of  icy  bitterness.  Yet  there 
is  a  ray  of  hope ;  he  may  come  yet.  How  she  longs  to 
hear  Mrs.  Gaunt  pronounce  his  name,  and  yet  she  fears 
it  too.  He  may  be  dead  ;  he  may  be  absent  from  the 
city,  gone  home  to  his  mother  and  sister.  How  gnaw 
ing  is  suspense,  yet  it  is  sometimes  better  than  hope 
less  certainty.  She  would  ask  for  herself,  but  she  could 
not  trust  her  lips  to  use  his  name  ;  they  would  betray 
her  secret.  She  wondered  that  neighbor  Harrow  did 
not  inquire  for  him, 

Neighbor    Harrow    and   Mrs.   Gaunt  keep    up    a 


THE   BLIND   GIRL  IN   LONDON.  253 

continued  conversation  about  things  pertaining  to  the 
Redeemer's  kingdom  in  their  different  localities. 
Mary  answers  agitatedly  to  the  questions  which  Mrs. 
Gaunt  asks  about  her  father,  her  mother,  and  the 
children. 

Tea  is  ready.  The  young  man  does  not  appear ;  his 
name  has  not  been  mentioned.  Mary  can  eat  but 
little.  Her  kind  friend  insists  that  she  shall  partake 
more  freely  of  her  frugal  meal ;  but  she  must  refuse, — 
she  cannot  eat. 

Weary  and  depressed,  Mary  retires  to  rest.  Sleep 
has  fled  from  her  eyelids  ;  her  heart  is  weighed  down 
under  a  burden  of  bitter  disappointment.  She  feels  so 
lonely  too ;  away  from  home  and  in  the  midst  of 
strangers,  and  the  bright  hope  that  nerved  her  soul  to 
the  fearful  undertaking,  and  buoyed  her  up  under  the 
fatigues  of  the  journey,  is  gone.  Where  can  she  look 
for  strength  and  support  ?  Then  rose  before  her  the 
dark,  cold  cell,  and  the  form  of  her  dear  father,  now 
pale  and  worn  by  five  years  confinement  in  the  prison  j 
and  then  the  home  picture — her  mother,  and  brothers, 
and  little  Sarah  drudging  on  from  day  to  day  amid 
poverty  and  suffering.  She  feels  she  'must  overcome 
all  obstacles  and  fulfill  her  mission.  The  night  is  far 
advanced  before  she  falls  asleep,  and  then  hideous 
dreams  disturb  and  fright  her. 

She  awakes  on  the  morning  to  find  herself  still  weary 
and  excitable.  After  breakfast  she  unfolds  her  plans 
to  Mrs.  Gaunt,  who  promises  to  assist  her  in  her 
undertaking  to  see  the  king.  But  they  decide  to  wait 
a  more  favorable  opportunity  than  the  present.  They 
wish  also  to  consult  Mr.  Kiffin  as  to  the  best  course  to 
pursue.  Mary's  instruction  from  her  father  is  "  to  stay 


254  MAJSIT  BUNYAJS-. 

with  Mrs.  Gaunt  until  she  can  see  the  king  and  present 
her  petition." 

Neighbor  Harrow  attends  to  his  little  business,  and 
makes  ready  to  return  to  Bedford.  Mary  bids  him 
farewell  with  throbbing  heart.  She  loves  Mrs.  Gaunt, 
but  she  has  never  been  from  home  before,  and  a  feeling 
of  loneliness  comes  over  her  as  she  holds  the  hand  of 
the  good  old  man  who  has  nursed  her  in  her  infancyj 
and  watched  over  her  and  the  household  with  such 
love  and  solicitude  since  their  father  has  been  taken 
from  them.  She  gives  him  many  messages  to  bear 
back  to  Bedford.  "But  tell  father,"  she  says  in 
conclusion,  "  that  I  will  do  all  I  can,  and  I  hope  the 
king  will  hear  me." 

The  good  old  man  commends  her  to  the  guidance  of 
God,  and  grasping  her  hand  warmly  in  his,  bids  her 
good-bye.  Then,  gathering  up  his  little  packages,  he 
turns  towards  his  home. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE     BLIND     G  I  R  L  '  S     APPLICATION     TO     THE 

KING. 

'Tis  a  calm  summer  evening.  The  sun,  which 
through  the  day  has  been  pouring  its  heated  radiance 
over  the  city,  calling  into  life  noisome  vapors  and 
death-dealing  exhalations,  now  declining  in  the  west, 
lights  up  with  golden  glory  each  spire  and  turret,  and 
mountain  height;  the  city,  bathed  in  glowing  efful 
gence,  wears  that  look  of  surpassing  brilliancy  which 
we  oftimes  think  characterizes  the  New  Jerusalem. 
Through  her  many  winding  streets  the  tide  of  busy  life 
rushes  on  continuously,  and  from  her  countless  work 
shops  goes  up  unceasingly  the  sound  of  the  artizan's 
hammer  and  the  weaver's  shuttle.  Man,  in  the  busy 
engagements  of  every  day  life,  has  forgotten  there  is  a 
higher  and  holier  life,  towards  which  the  unfettered 
aspirations  of  our  nature  forever  go  out  in  longings 
which  earth  cannot  satisfy. 

The.  King  and  court  have  been  engaged  in  a  continual 
round  of  pleasure  throughout  the  day.  Mirth,  an,d 
wine,  and  jest,  and  ribald  songs  have  occupied  the 
time  and  minds  of  those  created  in  the  image  of  the 
Infinite.  How  debased  is  human  nature  under  the 
curee  of  sin.  Ko  outward  circumstances,  no  extra- 
T2551 


256  MARY   BUNYAN. 

neons  influences,  can  change  it.  Men  may  have  a!4 
the  world  can  bestow  of  wealth  and  honor,  yea,  may 
be  greatly  gifted  intellectually,  and  yet,  what  are  they 
without  the  power  of  the  grace  of  God  to  direct  and 
control  them  ?  Let  the  court  of  Charles  II.  of  England, 
answer. 

The  King  has  amused  himself  to  surfeiting  amid  the 
beauties  of  his  court.  His  wantonness,  which  had  now 
become  popularized,  had  been  as  unrestrained  as  it 
was  disgraceful  and  corrupting.  Cloyed  with  the 
excess  which  met  him  everywhere  he  had  sought 
respite  from  it  in  the  grounds  surrounding  the  palace, 
one  of  his  favorite  amusements  being  the  feeding  of 
ducks  and  geese  and  other  aquatic  birds  which  he  had 
domesticated  in  the  ponds  of  the  palace-grounds. 

The  King  is  not  alone.  A  lovely  being  leans  on  his 
arm.  It  is  the  Lady  Castlemaine, — that  woman  of 
such  peerless  beauty  and  "  infamous  celebrity." 
Charles  gazes  up  into  the  imperious  face,  and  hangs  on 
the  words  of  command  with  as  much  servility  as 
though  he  were  her  page.  The  tall  figure,  in  garments 
loosely  flowing,  is  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  and 
the  left  hand  is  raised  as  if  to  give  more  emphasis  to 
the  words  she  is  speaking.  She  is  beseeching,  or 
rather  commanding  the  King  with  regard  to  a  settle 
ment  upon  her  of  a  large  estate  which  she  claims  at 
his  hands.  He  has  objected  because  of  its  enormity, 
at  which  the  lady  has  fallen  into  a  temper,  and  is 
be-rating  him  as  a  "  close  mean  fellow,  and  too  poor  to 
do  a  handsome  thing."  From  beneath  the  drooping 
lids,  with  their  long  silken  lashes,  her  brilliant  eyes 
speak  the  fierce  determination  of  soul.  Her  nostrils 
are  distended,  and  her  lips  curled  with  disdain.  She 


APPLICATION   TO  THE   KING.  257 

will  not  brook  a  refusal.  The  King  sees  that  denial  is 
useless.  The  demand  must  be  met  before  peace  can 
be  restored,  for  the  imperious  beauty  is  inexorable. 

The  King  gives  consent ;  he  dare  not  withhold. 
Instantly  a  smile  overspreads  the  exquisitely  chiseled 
features,  and  an  air  of  soft  languor  pervades  that  form 
which  but  a  moment  before  was  as  commanding  as 
Bellona.  The  rich  red  lips,  so  late  curled  in  arrogance, 
are  now  as  sweet  and  wooing  as  a  summer  rose. 

They  approach  a  small  pond  overshadowed  by  a 
clump  of  old  trees,  which  now,  that  the  sun  is  sinking 
in  the  western  sky,  throw  their  lengthened  shadows 
across  the  smooth  still  waters  and  beyond  on  to  the 
green  sward,  which  like  a  soft  green  carpet,  spreads 
itself  around.  They  lean  on  the  slight  enclosure,  and 
the  King  pours  words  of  love  into  the  ears  of  his  fair 
•mistress.  She  receives  his  protestations  kindly,  for  he 
has  just  granted  her  a  magnificent  request.  A  page 
comes  with  bread,  which  the  King  takes,  and  while  he 
whispers  in  soft  low  accens  the  seared  heart  of  the 
Lady  Castlemaine,  he  carelessly  throws  food  to  the 
eager  birds  who  vie  with  each  other  in  partaking  of  his 
bounty.  The  lady  looks  languidly  into  his  face,  and 
smiles  upon  him  most  sweetly,  and  answers  him  in 
words  of  deep  affection.  Thus  they  while  the  time 
away  in  dalliance  soft,  until  the  King,  "  ever  changing 
yet  ever  weary,"  proposes  to  return.  The  imperial 
beauty  accedes  to  his  proposal,  and  gathering  up 
the  gauzy  scarf  that  has  fallen  from  shoulders  of 
alabaster  whiteness,  and  throwing  from  a  Juno  brow 
the  soft  dark  wavy  hair,  she  leans  fondly  on  his  arm, 
and  the  two  turn  towards  the  palace. 
They  pass  from  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  old  trees, 


<J58  MABY   BUNYAN. 

and  wend  their  way  noiselessly  along.  As  they  near 
the  palace,  groups  of  gallant  lords  and  gay  ladies  pass 
before  them  in  various  parts  of  the  grounds.  Not 
wishing  to  be  interrupted,  they  turn  their  steps  toward 
a  less  frequented  part  of  the  park.  As  they  turn  an 
angle  and  emerge  from  the  cover  of  a  clump  of  shrub 
bery,  they  are  encountered  by  two  female  figures. 

The  King  and  Lady  Castlemaine  are  about  to  pass 
on  unheeding  the  pair,  when  the  eldest  steps  a  little 
forward,  and  says : 

"  "Will  your  majesty  grant  to  listen  to  us  a  moment  ?" 

"  And  what  may  be  your  wish,  woman  ?"  replied  the 
king,  impatiently. 

"  This  poor  blind  girl  wants  to  beseech  you  for  her 
father,  sire," 

Mary  trembled  from  head  to  foot  as  she  heard  her 
self  mentioned.  The  King's  voice  fell  gratingly  upon 
her  ears.  She  moved  to  Mrs.  Gaunt's  side,  and  nestled 
close  to  her.  The  change  brought  her  face  to  face  with 
the  King.  Charles,  who  was  always  influenced  by 
beauty,  paused,  as  his  eye  rested  on  the  sweet,  pensive 
face  before  him.  The  mellow  rays  of  the  evening  sun 
lent  a  fresh  loveliness  to  the  pale  face,  which  it  did  not 
always  wear.  The  eyes  were  drooped,  and  shaded  by 
the  long  lashes,  so  that  the  king  did  not  at  first  per 
ceive  that  she  was  blind. 

"  And  what  is  the  matter  with  your  lather,  my  las 
sie  ?"  asks  Charles,  in  that  familiar  tone,  so  disgusting 
to  those  accustomed  to  court  scenes,  but  which,  to 
poor,  trembling  Mary  Bunyan,  sounds  like  the  very 
embodiment  of  kindness.  Her  heart  is  instantly  re-as 
sured.  Taking  the  petition  from  her  bosom,  she  pre 
sents  it  to  the 


APPLICATION    TO   THE   KING.  250 

"Bunyan,  is  it?"  says  the  King,  looking  at  the 
petition,  "  John  Bunyan !  Are  you  Banyan's  daughter, 
lassie  ?" 

"  I  am,  please  your  Majesty,"  replies  the  trembling 
girl,  without  raising  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  King. 

"  Odds,  fish !  and  what  is  the  matter  with  your 
father,  lassie  ?"  exclaims  Charles,  vainly  endeavoring 
to  decipher  Bunyan's  handwriting. 

"  He  is  in  prison,"  replies  Mary  with  trembling 
voice.  "  They  put  him  in  prison  for  preaching,  and 
they  have  kept  him  there  for  almost  five  years. 
Won't  you  let  him  come  out,  sire  ? — he  does  nobody 
any  harm." 

"  And  what  does  he  preach,  lassie  ?" 

"  He  preaches  nothing  but  the  gospel,  sire." 

"What  gospel?"  asks  the  King,  charmed  with  the 
modest  manner  and  sweet  voice  of  the  girl. 

"The  Bible  gospel,  sire.  The  gospel  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,"  answers  Mary,  growing  more  and  more 
bold  under  the  kind  voice  of  the  King. 

"  Do  not  waste  words  on  the  country  girl,"  whis 
pered  the  Lady  Castlemaine,  piqued  that  Charles  should 
manifest  so  much  interest  in  a  peasant  girl.  She 
motions  to  leave,  but  the  King  stands  firm.  A  dark 
scowl  gathers  on  the  face  of  the  regal  beauty.  She 
does  not  wish  to  hear  anything  about  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  He  is  not  a  welcome  guest. 

"  Odds,  fish  !  Don't  keep  your  eyes  so  fixed  on  the 
ground.  A  pretty  girl  like  you  can  afford  to  look  up. 
Come,  look  up!"  and  the  King  holds  out  his  hand 
encouragingly. 

"  I  am  blind,  sire,"  replies  Mary,  in  a  low,  agitated 
tone.  "  I  cannot  see,  sire." 


260  MART   BUNYAN. 

''  JBlind,  eh?"  repeats  the  King,  and  he  hands  the 
petition  to  Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  motions  to  turn  away. 

Maiy  understands  the  movement. 

"  My  father,  my  father,  sire  !  can't  he  come  out  of 
the  dungeon  ?"  gasps  the  fearful  girl  eagerly,  as  she 
clings  to  Mrs.  Gaunt  for  support. 

"  "Well,  I'll  see  about  it,  lassie,"  and  the  King  turns 
from  her. 

"  My  father,  oh,  my  father,  sire  !  Tell  me  may  he 
some  out  of  jail !  He  has  been  in  jail  now  five  years, 
and  my  mother  and  the  children  are  starving  for 
bread.  May  he  come  out,  oh,  may  he  come  out?" 
cries  Mary  convulsively,  endeavoring  to  make  her 
words  reach  the  King. 

Her  efforts  are  in  vain.  The  besotted  monarch 
moves  on  to  scenes  of  worldly  pleasure,  and  leaves  the 
girl  Lo  weep. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

THE      PLAGUE. 

THE  year  1665  is  noted  in  the  history  of  England  as 
being  the  period  of  two  of  the  most  dreadful  calamities 
that  ever  befell  London — the  Plague  and  the  Great 
Fire.  The  one  destroyed  about  seventy  thousand  lives  ; 
the  other,  every  tenement  to  be  found  on  four  hundred 
and  thirty-six  acres  of  ground.  It  seemed  that  God, 
angry  with  the  creatures  that  every  day  provoked  him 
and  blasphemed  his  name,  was  pouring  out  the  vials 
of  his  wrath  and  fiery  indignation.  The  nation  was 
made  to  mourn  ;  for  death,  in  its  most  terrible  form, 
was  ravaging  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
The  iniquities  of  a  dissolute  king  and  his  licentious 
court  had  gone  up  before  the  throne  of  God,  and  the 
cries  and  groans  of  the  elect,  whom  persecution  and 
tyranny  trampled  daily  under  foot,  had  reached  the 
ear  of  Infinite  Justice.  And  now  the  measure  that 
had  been  meted  out  by  the  oppressors  and  tormen 
tors  of  the  saints,  was,  in  turn,  to  be  meted  out  to 
them. 

"Who  is  able  to  stand  before  the  terrible  vengeance 
of  an  angry  God  ?  With  him  the  nations  of  the  earth 
are  but  as  the  small  dust  of  the  balance,  and  he  taketh 
up  the  isles  as  a  very  little  thing.  Let  man  beware 
how  he  rebel  against  the  Most  High  God.  Let  him 

'261) 


MARY    BUNTAN. 

lather,  "kiss  the  Son,  lest  he  be  angry,  and  ye  perish 
from  the  way  when  his  wrath  is  kindled  but  a  little." 

Men's  hearts  have  waxed  proud  and  rebellious.  The 
fear  of  God  is  not  before  their  eyes.  They  laugh,  and 
jeer,  and  talk,  and  wanton  in  the  ways  of  pleasure. 
Sensual  and  debased,  amid  luxurious  magnificence, 
they  riot  in  beastly  excesses,  disregarding  all  social 
claims,  and  the  yet  higher  claims  of  religion.  They 
are  sunken,  besotted,  brutish,  wrapped  in  garments 
of  sin.  Then  "  the  pestilence,  that  walketh  in  dark 
ness,  and  the  destruction  that  wasteth  at  noon-day," 
comes  suddenly  upon  them,  and  cries  of  wailing  and 
mourning  go  up  from  palace  and  hovel,  for  the  Angel- 
of  death  is  abroad  to  strike  down,  not  only  the 
first-born  of  each  household,  but  all  ages,  ranks,  and 
conditions. 

The  cup  of  indignation  is  full.  The  time  of  retribu 
tion  is  at  hand. 

The  atmosphere,  like  a  leaden  pall,  envelopes  the 
city.  The  air  is  motionless.  The  lurid  rays  of  the 
noontide  sun  struggle  sickly  through  the  mantle  of 
gloom  which  envelopes  the  earth.  Men's  hearts  sink 
within  them  as  they  look  fearfully  around  them  and 
above.  Horrid  forebodings  seize  them  as  they  gaze  on 
the  unmistakeable  omens. 

Suddenly  there  start  out  on  the  still,  heavy  air,  the 
piercing  shrieks  of  agony.  Men  tremble,  and  their 
hearts  wax  faint  as  they  go  about  the  streets,  asking  the 
cause  of  the  lamentation. 

It  is  the  Plague  ! 

The  monster  is  in  their  midst,  mowing  down  with 
his  death  scythe  men,  youths,  maidens,  and  those  of 
hoary  hairs.  The  whole  city  is  in  breathless  horror. 


THE  PLAGUE.  263 

"  The  Plague  !  The  Plague  /"  is  given  from  lip  to  lip, 
while  every  heart  stands  still  with  fearful  consterna 
tion. 

The  distress  deepens.  Each  new  day  but  adds  fresh 
terror  to  the  already  frightful  ravages  of  the  epidemic. 
Hundreds  are  dying  hourly.  Everything  betokens  hor 
ror  and  distress.  Those  who  have  sympathy  for  suf 
fering  humanity  are  taxed  to  the  utmost.  From  every 
part  of  the  great  metropolis  there  come  forth  the  lam 
entations  of  the  sick  and  the  dying. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  scarce  rests  from  her  toil,  day  or  night 
Amid  scenes  of  wretchedness,  where  the  dead  await 
the  cry  of  the  cart-man,  or  the  dying  call  out  in  vain 
for  relief  for  their  torturing  pain  ;  where  the  mother 
weeps  over  the  dead  child,  or  famishing  infant  lips 
press  the  breast  of  the  mother  whose  heart  is  stilled  in 
death — everywhere,  everywhere,  where  aid  can  be  be 
stowed,  she  was  found  an  angel  of  love  and  mercy,  giv 
ing  all  the  assistance  her  scanty  means  will  afford.  Her 
few  acquaintances  beseech  her  to  take  care  of  herself, 
lest  she,  too,  may  fall  a  victim  to  the  dreadful  scourge. 

"  '  For  me  to  live,  is  Christ  ;  and  to  die,  is  gain,' 3: 
she  would  answer.  "  '  A  cup  of  cold  water  in  the 
name  of  my  Master'— 'tis  all  I  can  do.  I  will  give  it, 
and  leave  the  result  with  God." 

Mary  has  been  told  that  the  king  is  going  from  the 
city.  She  decides  within  herself  to  make  another  at 
tempt  for  her  father's  liberty  ;  but  how  will  she  get  to 
the  palace  is  the  question.  She  does  not  wish  to  trouble 
Mrs.  Gaunt,  poor  woman  ;  she  is  almost  ready  to  sink 
now  under  her  pressing  duties.  She  cannot  go  alone. 

A  thought  strikes  her.  There  is  a  girl  living  next 
door  who  has  told  her  a  great  deal  about  London  ;  she 


264:  MART   BUNTAN. 

will  ask  her  to  go  with  her.  She  thinks  now  that  the 
king  is  so  frightened  about  the  plague  he  will  surely 
hear  her  and  grant  her  request.  Poor  girl !  she  does  not 
know  that  the  coward  king  has  long  since  fled  from  the 
scene  of  danger  to  a  secure  asylum  where  distress  and  suf 
fering  cannot  interrupt  his  round  of  sensual  enjoyment. 

She  will  ask  Margaret  Purdy  to  go  with  her  ;  this 
is  her  conclusion  as  she  sits  in  the  little  street-room 
alone,  waiting  for  Mrs.  Gaunt  to  come  back. 

She  will  step  in  and  see  Margaret  now  ;  then  she 
can  set  out  for  White  Hall  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Gaunt  goes 
out  again,  which  Mary  knows  she  will  do  as  soon  as  she 
has  eaten  a  morsel  of  food. 

"  Yes,  that  I  will,  go  with  you  to  see  the  king.  He 
will  let  your  father  out  of  prison  now,  I  know  the  way 
well,  and  there  is  no  plague  out  in  that  direction." 

"  Will  your  mother  let  you  go,  Margaret  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  she  will.  She  told  me  this  morn 
ing  I  must  go  out  walking  somewhere  ;  she  says  1  will 
die  if  I  sit  around  the  house  so  much.  We  can  go 
down  to  the  Strand,  then  up  White  Hall  street, 
and  we  won't  go  where  the  plague  is  at  all.  But  when 
will  you  go,  Mary  ?" 

"  When  Mrs,  Gaunt  goes  out  again." 

Mrs.  Gaunt  returned  home  from  her  round,  weary 
and  sick  at  heart.  During  her  morning  walk  she  had 
encountered  scenes  more  horrid  than  any  she  had  pre 
viously  met.  The  plague  was  increasing  fearfully. 

"  You  must  rest  this  evening,"  said  Mary,  as  the  tired 
woman  threw  herself  into  a  chair. 

"  No,  my  child,  I  cannot  rest  ;  there  is  too  much 
to  be  done.  The  sick  and  dying  are  on  every  hand. 
The  plague  is  raging  to-day  more  violently  than  ever. 


THE    PLAGUE.  265 

I'll  take  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  bread,  and  then  I  will 
go  and  see  Mr.  Cromey's  family  ;  they  are  Baptist,  and 
I  hear  the  dreadful  enemy  has  come  into  their  house." 
Mary  shuddered  as  she  heard  of  the  extended  rav 
ages  of  the  fearful  scourge.  Living  as  she  did  in  Dru- 
ry  Lane,  then  pretty  nearly  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
(for  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing  was  two  hun 
dred  years  ago,)  she  had  not  fully  realized  the  horrors 
of  the  fearful  scourge  which  was  every  day  pushing  its 
way  westward  towards  White  Hall  and  Westminster. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  partook  of  some  simple  refreshments 
again  and  set  out  on  her  labor  of  love. 

The  two  girls  prepared  themselves  for  their  walk  to 
White  Hall. 

They  passed  along  the  Strand  with  quick  and  eager 
step.  Soon  they  reached  Charing  Cross,  and  were 
wending  their  way  up  White  Hall  street  to  the  pal 
ace. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  children  ?"  asked  an  old 
man,  whom  they  encountered  just  after  they  had 
crossed  Pall-mall. 

"  We  are  going  to  White  Hall,"  answered  Mary,  tim 
idly.  "  We  wish  to  see  the  king." 

"  Ah,  poor  child,  you  cannot  see  the  king  there  ;  he 
has  been  gone  to  the  country  for  days  ;  he  could  not 
face  tile  plague.  You  children  had  better  go  home  as. 
soon  as  you  can.  Do  you  see  that  group  of  houses 
yonder?"  and  the  old  man  pointed  his  linger  to  a  clump 
of  ordinary  buildings  near  by, — "  the  plague  has  bro 
ken  out  there,  and  men,  and  women,  and  children  are 
dying  every  hour." 

The  two    girls  were  almost    terrified   with  fright  ; 

they  turned  to  retrace  their  steps.      Just  at  this  nx>- 

12 


266  MARY    BUNYAN. 

ment  a  cart  rolled  by,  and  the  driver,  stopping  before 
one  of  the  houses  with  the  fearful  red  cross  upon  it, 
cried  out  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  "  Bring  out  your  dead." 

A  cold  shudder  shook  the  form  of  Mary  as  these 
dreadful  words  fell  upon  her  ear.  She  could  not  see 
the  frightful  red  cross  on  the  doors  of  the  closed  tene 
ments,  nor  the  wild  stare  of  those  who  brought  the 
livid  corpse  to  the  door,  nor  the  despairing  look  of  the 
mother  as  she  saw  the  uncoffined  form  of  her  dear  son 
heaved  into  the  death-cart,  the  first  of  a  number  of 
bodies  who  were  to  share  the  same  fate  in  the  loath 
some  bury  ing-ground  ;  but  she  felt  it  all ;  and  her  ex 
quisite  sensibility  pictured  the  horrid  scene  even  more 
vividly,  if  it  were  possible,  than  natural  vision  be 
held  it. 

Margaret  grew  pale  with  terror,  and  grasping  tightly 
the  thin  pale  hand  of  Mary,  now  cold  and  trembling 
with  fear,  the  two  hastened  towards  the  city. 

On  they  went  up  the  Strand,  unconscious  of  all  things 
but  the  desire  to  get  to  a  place  of  safety.  Suddenly 
they  encounter  a  death-cart,  from  which  proceeds  the 
most  noisome  exhalations. 

"  Where  are  we,  where  are  we  ?"  cried  Mary,  convul 
sively  grasping  the  hand  of  her  companion. 

"  Bring  out  your  dead,"  calls  out  in  a  hollow  tone, 
the  voice  of  the  driver,  as  the  death-cart  baits  before  a 
dwelling  on  which  the  red  cross  had  just  been  placed. 

"  Hush,  Mary,"  cried  Margaret,  as  the  horrid  sound 
rung  in  upon  her  soul.  "  Hush,  and  come  along, 
Mary,  we  are  almost  home." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad,"  gasped  out  the  blind  girl. 

On,  on,  the  two  girls  hasten,  the  dreadful  cry  still  ring 
ing:  in  their  ears. 


THE   PLAGUE.  267 

Margaret  stops  suddenly. 

"  We  are  lost !  we  are  lost,  Mary  !  and  yonder  is 
the  death-cart  coining  towards  us."  Margaret  spoke 
with  the  wildness  of  despair, 

As  the  vehicle  of  death  rolled  by,  they  grasped  each 
other  the  more  closely,  and  pressed  forward.  They 
dared  not  stop  anywhere,  for  the  death  sign  was  on 
every  door.  On,  on,  they  rush  with  trembling  limbs 
and  fainting  hearts. 

"  Stand  here,  Mary,"  and  Margaret  loosed  herself 
from  the  blind  girl.  Mary  threw  her  hand  out  to 
catch  her.  It  was  too  late.  The  two  were  separated. 
They  never  again  met.  In  twenty-four  hours  the  death 
cart  stopped  before  a  house  in  the  old  Drury.  "  Bring 
out  your  dead,"  cried  the  driver  as  he  saw  the  new  red 
cross  sign  on  an  old  building.  The  door  opened,  and 
the  cold  body  of  Margaret,  marked  with  the  plague- 
spot,  was  handed  out,  and  deposited  with  others  from 
the  same  building — and  the  cart  rolled  on. 

Mary  seated  herself  on  a  door-step,  waiting  in  dread 
ful  terror  for  some  relief ;  but  none  came.  "I  must 
die,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  shall  never  see  home 
again  ;  oh  Lord,  have  mercy,  have  mercy  on  me." 

The  evening  came  on  ;  there  she  sat.  Death-carts 
rattled  through  the  otherwise  deserted  streets. 

"  I  shall  surely  die  here,"  she  said,  and  with  that 
instinctive  shrinking  from  loneliness  which  haunts  the 
bosom  of  all,  she  rose,  places  her  hand  on  the  door 
knob,  and  enters.  She  stretches  forth  her  hand  ;  it 
-rests  on  the  cold  face  of  a  corpse  ;  shrieking,  she  turns, 
and  flies  to  the  street. 

On  she  goes — faster,  faster,  she  knows  not  whither 
her  steps  tend. 


268  MARY   BUNYAN. 

Faint  and  fatigued,  she  rests  herself  on  the  cia'b-stone  ; 
her  heart  has  almost  ceased  to  beat.  A  deep  loud 
wail  rings  out  from  some  house  near  by,  "  Oh,  my 
son,  my  son  ;"  this  is  all  she  can  hear. 

She  starts  again  to  her  feet,  and  as  she  drives  for 
ward,  hears  again  and  again  the  cry,  "  Bring  out  your 
dead,  bring  out  your  dead." 

The  Lord  help  thee,  poor  child,  He  alone  can  succor 
thee  now. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

A      FRIEND      IN      NEED. 

IN  our  last  chapter  we  left  Mary  forsaken  and  in 
despair,  wandering  in  wild  phrenzy  up  Ludgate  Hill, 
towards  St.  Paul,  while  the  hideous  cry,  "  Bring  out 
your  dead  !  bring  out  your  dead !"  fell  on,  her  ear,  and 
rung  in  horrid  peal  through  her  sinking  soul.  Death- 
carts  rattled  through  the  now  almost  vacant  streets, 
and  the  sound  of  human  voices  was  heard  only  in  the 
dreadful  summons  of  the  cartman,  and  the  wailing 
shrieks  of  a  mother,  or  sister,  or  wife,  as  they  gave  up 
into  his  keeping  the  now  loathsome  remains  of  those 
who  but  a  few  hours  before  had  been  their  joy  and 
pride. 

Mary  pressed  on,  she  knew  not  whither — indeed  she 
scarcely  cared  so  great  was  her  fright.  She  knew  it 
was  certain  death  to  remain  where  she  was.  She  felt 
the  fetid  atmosphere,  as  filled  with  the  seeds,  of  the 
plague,  it  moved  heavily  over  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  wing  of  the  Angel  of  Death  had  put  in  motion 
the  thick  suffocating  air,  which  stifled  and  weighed 
her  down. 

"  I  shall  die,  and  my  father  will  never  know  what 
has  gone  with  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  groped 
her  way  along  the  street,  vainly  endeavoring  to  do 

something  for  her  relief. 
1269) 


270  MART   BUNYAN. 

She  was  hurrying  on  with  her  hands  thrown  wildly 
out  before  her,  and  her  bonnet  falling  from  her  shoul 
ders,  while  her  face  wore  the  pallor  of  death,  when 
suddenly  she  struck  her  foot  against  a  stone  and  fell 
prostrate.  She  shrieked  with  terror.  She  could  not 
rise — fright  had  rendered  her  powerless. 

"  I  must  die  here  ;  I  must  die,  O  God !  my  poor 
father !  my  dear  father !  and  my  mother,  and  the 
children  !  I  must  leave  them  all !  O  God,  pity  me  1" 
she  exclaimed,  as  she  lay  unable  to  rise. 

A  hand  touched  her  arm.  She  started  and  screamed. 
"  I  am  not  dead,  I  am  not  dead,"  she  gasped  convul 
sively.  She  thought  it  was  the  death-man. 

"  I  see  you  are  not  dead,  but  you  soon  will  be  if  you 
stay  here,"  replied  the  man,  in  a  full  hard  voice. 
"  Get  up,  get  up  ;  do  you  want  to  be  thrown  into  the 
cart  ?"  She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot  as  she  heard 
the  words.  "  Havn't  you  got  any  home  ?  where  does 
your  mother  live  ?  Tell  me,  and  I'll  take  you  home." 

"  Mrs.  Gaunt,  in  the  Drury,"  stammered  out  Mary, 
incoherently. 

"  "Well,  get  up  and  come  along ;  we'll  soon  be 
there." 

Mary,  electrified  with  the  thought  of  so  soon  being 
freed  from  danger,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  clutched  the 
hand  of  the  man,  which  rested  on  her  arm.  But  he 
had  mistaken  her  words.  He 'understood  her  to  say 
Jewry,  and,  instead  of  bearing  her  to  Mrs.  Gaunt's,  in 
Drury  Lane,  which,  at  that  time  of  the  plague,  was 
comparatively  free  from  the  pestilence,  he  hurried  her 
along  towards  the  Old  Jewry,  where  it  was  raging  in 
wildest  fury. 

As  the  blind  girl  strode  on,  holding  with  a  death 


A   FEIEND   IN   NEED.  271 

grip  to  the  man's  hand,  she  sobbed  aloud  with  emotion 
of  thankfulness  at  her  deliverance. 

On,  on  they  went,  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  the 
twilight,  Mary  weeping  aloud,  and  the  man  hurrying 
her  forward  towards  the  Old  Jewry 

"  What  is  the  matter,  poor  child  ?"  asked  a  kind 
voice. 

Mary  could  not  reply. 

"  She  has  lost  her  way,  and  I  am  taking  her  home," 
replied  the  man  quickly. 

"  And  where  is  your  home,  child  ?"  asked  the  old 
man  who  interrupted  them.  There  was  something  in 
his  tone,  so  gentle  and  so  kind,  that  re-assured  Mary's 
heart,  and  gave  her  hope.  Her  sobbings  were  hushed) 
and  she  was  able  to  reply  writh  some  calmness, 

"  I  live  in  Elstow,  sir.  I  am  staying  now  with  Mrs. 
Gaunt,  who  lives  in  Drury  Lane." 

"  Drury  Lane,  girl,"  said  her  conductor  in  astonish 
ment.  "  I  thought  you  told  me  you  lived  in  the  Jewry. 
I  have  been  bringing  you  away  from  home  instead  of 
carrying  you  to  it.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  Could'nt 
you  see  I  was  taking  you  wrong  ?" 

"  I  cannot  see,  sir ;  I  am  blind  ;"  she  answered 
timidly,  as  if  unwilling  to  tell  of  her  misfortune  to  a 
stranger. 

"Blind!  live  in  Elsknv  ?"  repeated  the  old  man,  in 
a  low  voice,  as  if  talking  to  himself.  "  And  what  is 
your  name,  child  ?"  asked  he  eagerly, 

"  Mary  Bunyan,  sir ;  my  father  is  in  the  Bedford 
jail." 

"  The  Lord  be  praised !"  exclaimed  the  old  man 
fervently.  "  Come  with  me,  child.  I  will  take  care 
of  you  for  your  father's  sake.  He  is  suffering  for  the 


272  MARY   BUNYAN. 

testimony  of  Jesus,  and  his  child  shall  never  suffer  as 
long  as  I  can  protect  her.  But  we  must  hurry  away 
from  this  dreadful  place.  The  plague  is  raging  here 
with  great  violence.  Come,  quick,  give  me  your 
hand." 

The  man  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  his  charge  when  he 
found  he  was  taking  her  the  wrong  way,  so  he  bade 
them  a  hasty  good  evening,  and,  turning  on  his  steps, 
hurried  back  towards  St.  Paul's. 

"  Bring  out  your  dead  !"  rung  out  in  wild  hollow 
tones  on  the  still,  loathsome  air.  Mary  shuddered  as 
she  heard  the  cartman's  dread  call.  Involuntarily  she 
pressed  more  closely  to  the  old  man's  side. 

"  Come,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man  to  her,  as  he 
placed  on  her  bonnet  and  grasped  her  hand,  "  Come, 
we  have  got  a  good  walk  before  us,  and  it  is  late  ;  but 
you  cannot  see  it,  poor  child,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 
pity,  as  he  remembered  she  had  said  she  was  blind. 

The  two  hurried  forward  towards  Grace-church  street. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  they  reached  London 
bridge. 

"  This  is  the  bridge,"  said  the  old  man  to  Mary,  as 
they  entered  upon  it  from  the  street.  "  I  live  in  South- 
wark,  and  we  have  to  cross  the  river." 

Mary  could  not  see  the  ponderous  old  bridge,  as  it 
threw  itself  across  the  sluggish  Thames,  with  its 
carriage-way  and  foot-ways,  but  she  felt  a  fearfulness 
creep  over  her,  as  there  arose  the  dead  hollow  sound 
from  the  footsteps  of  those  who,  from  compulsion,  were 
crossing  at  this  hour.  The  lamps  gave  out  a  sickly 
glare,  as  the  old  man  and  the  blind  girl  hastened  on. 

"There  is  the  daughter  of  our  dear  brother  Bunyan, 
of  Bedford,  Jane,"  said  the  old  man  to  his  wife,  as  he 


A   FKIEND   IN   NEED.  273 

entered  their  door,  in  Southwark,  leading  Mary  by  the 
hand.  The  good  wife  started  up  dismayed. 

"Is  Bro.  Bunyan  in  London,  Mr.  Brown?  Where 
did  you  find  the  poor  child  ?  Come,  child,  take  a  seat. 
Poor  thing,  yon  look  pale  and  scared.  Where  did  he 
find  you?  Do  tell  me,  Mr.  Brown,  where  did  you 
cross  this  child  of  our  dear  brother  Bunyan  ?" 

"  In  the  street,  Jane — knowing  not  whither  she  was 
going.  The  Lord  directed  me  to  her.  A  few  steps 
more,  and  she  would  have  turned,  and  I  should  have 
missed  her  entirely.  It  was  a  kind  Providence  to  send 
me  along  that  way,  before  she  got  into  the  Jewry." 

"  Oh,  heavens !  was  she  going  there  ?  Are  you 
staying  there,  in  that  miserable  place,  my  poor  child, 
where  the  dreadful  pestilence  is  so  fearful  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am.  The  man  did  not  know  what  I  said  to 
him.  I  told  him  Drury,  and  he  thought  I  said  Jewry, 
and  I  could  not  see  the  way  to  tell  him  any  better." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  it  was  so  dark,  you  could  not  see,  and 
you  were  so  scared.  Yes,  yes — I  know  how  it  is  ;  you 
were  so  far  from  home,  too." 

"  I  cannot  see,"  said  Mary,  turning  to  the  good 
woman.  "  I  am  blind." 

"  Ah,  poor  child  !  that  is  it,  is  it  ?  He  was  leading 
you  into  death  and  you  did  not  know  it.  Thank  God, 
he  delivered  you  in  his  own  good  way." 

"  There,  take  off  your  bonnet,  child,  and  drink  this 
glass  of  ale  ;  it  will  do  you  good  after  your  long  walk. 
The  good  Lord  be  praised,  that  he  has  sent  you  to  us. 
And  where  have  you  been  staying  in  the  city,  child  ?" 

"I  have. been  with  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  who  was  once 
at  my  mother's  house,  at  Elstow." 

"  Oh,   yes ;   a   dear  good  woman,  my  child,  sister 


274  MARY   BUNYAN. 

Gaunt  is.  She  does  a  great  deal  of  good  for  the  poor 
and  suffering  of  Christ's  kingdom.  She  goes  about 
like  our  dear  Master — always  doing  good.  And  you 
have  been  staying  with  her  here,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you 
had  so  good  a  friend." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  evev  since  I  have  been  in  the  city." 

"  And  where  does  this  good  woman  live  ?  I  have 
seen  her  at  Bro.  Kiffin's  church  sometimes,  and  once 
or  twice  I  have  seen  her  in  an  old  sister's,  just  this  side 
of  the  bridge  in  High  Street,  but  I  never  heard  where 
she  lived." 

"  She  lives  somewhere  in  Drury  Lane,  it  is  called  ; 
but  I  do  not  know  where." 

"  And  she  was  way  up  by  St.  Paul's,  Mr.  Brown  ? 
Oh,  poor  child !  how  did  you  wander  so  far  from 
home  ?" 

Mary  told  the  good  woman  all.  How  she  had  deter 
mined  to  see  the  King  a  second  time  in  behalf  of  her 
father,  and  to  do  this  without  troubling  Mrs.  Gaunt; 
how  she  and  Margaret  had  set  out  alone  ;  of  the  great 
fright  they  had  received,  as  they  reached  Charing 
Cross  ;  of  their  turning  back  and  hurrying  on  until 
Margaret  found  that  they  were  lost ;  of  her  being  left 
alone  in  the  street,  and  trying  to  find  some  one  to  take 
her  home ;  how  she  had  entered  the  house  and  placed 
her  hand  on  the  dead  man's  face.  Then  of  her  despair, 
until  the  man  spoke  to  her  as  she  lay  prostrate,  on  the 
street,  expecting  to  perish. 

"  Poor  child,"  said  the  kind-hearted  woman  as  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  looked  upon  the  pale,  innocent 
face  before  her  with  an  expression  of  sincere  compas 
sion.  "  The  Lord  himself  did  deliver  you." 

"And   your   dear  father!    how   does   he   bear   his 


A   FKIEND   IN   NEED.  275 

long,  weary  life  in  the  jail ;  lie  has  been  there  now  five 
years." 

"  Do  you  know  father  ?"  asked  Mary  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  and  we  know  of  his  great  sufferings,  and 
of  the  distress  of  his  family,  and  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
persecutor.  But  the  Lord  himself  will  avenge 
his  innocent  children,  who  bear  all  things  for  his 
name's  sake.  He  was  in  London,  some  years  ago,  to 
see  the  King.  He  wanted  then  to  get  himself  out  of 
jail.  He  was  in  our  house.  Oh,  how  we  loved  him  ! 
He  told  us  about  you ;  your  name  is  Mary ;  and  he 
called  you  his  dear  blind  child  ;  and  he  told  us  of  your 
mother,  and  your  brothers,  and  the  baby — little  Sarah, 
I  think  he  called  her  name.  Oh,  his  heart  was  most 
broke  when  he  found  he  could  do  nothing  with  the 
King.  His  majesty  is  so  frivolous.  He  will  never 
take  time  to  right  the  wrongs  of  his  subjects.  The 
Lord  only  knows  what  will  become  of  us.  "We  are 
cruelly  treated  by  those  who  rule  over  us.  You  don't 
understand  all  these  things  now,  dear  child,  but  you 
will  by  and  by.  Lord,  when  will  thou  come  to  avenge 
us  ?"  and  the  kind  old  woman  turned  her  eyes  beseech 
ingly  upward. 

"  In  his  own  good  time  he  will  come,  Jane,  to  bring 
light  out  of  darkness — and  that  time  is  near  at  hand, 
even  at  the  door.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  terrible 
pestilence  ?  Is  it  not  making  straight  the  paths  of  the 
Lord — preparing  his  ways,  as  saith  the  prophet : 
'  Wrath  and  destruction  must  be  poured  on  his 
enemies,  even  upon  Antichrist,  and  the  woman  who 
rideth  on  the  beast.  The  measure  of  her  iniquities  is 
almost  full.  Then  will  the  Lord  come  in  power  and 
great  glory  to  destroy  the  Wicked  One  with  the 


276  MARY   BUNYAN. 

brightness  of  His  coming,  and  give  to  us,  who  long  for 
his  appearing,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  wherein 
dwelleth  righteousness.'  We  are  pressing  on  towards 
that  time.  It  is  not  far  before  us,  thank  God.  '  Then 
shall  the  living  be  changed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
and  the  righteous  dead  shall  be  raised  to  reign  with 
him  forever  and  ever.  The  Lord  himself  hath  spoken 
it.'  "* 

"  Yes,  bless  the  Lord,"  interfered  the  old  woman 
enthusiastically  ;  "  we  are  looking  for  and  trusting  in  his 
coming." 

"  When  my  poor  John  died,  ten  years  ago,"  she 
resumed  after  a  few  moments'  pause,  "  John  was  my 
only  child,  Mary,  and  I  loved  him  very  dear — when 
he  died,  I  was  sorely  grieved.  It  did  seem  to  me  I 
could  not  live.  The  world  was  all  so  hollow  and  so 
dark.  I  wondered  why  it  was  God  had  afflicted  me 
so.  I  felt  it  was  very  hard — oh,  so  very  hard,  because 
I  had  only  the  one,  and  Oh  !  how  I  loved  him,  but  I 
see  now  it  was  all  well.  John  might  have  been  in 
prison  this  day  instead  of  being  in  heaven.  John 
might  have  been  suffering,  and  tortured,  and  tor 
mented  ;  but  now,  thank  God,  he  is  happy — oh,  so 
happy  !  my  poor  tongue  cannot  tell  it,  and  he  is  ever 
before  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb  to  praise  them 
forever  and  ever ;  and  I  shall  soon  meet  him,  and  my 
Saviour,  in  the  clouds  of  heaven.  Thank  God !  thank 
God !  for  the  exceeding  great  and  precious  promises 
of  the  gospel  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ !" 

"  Amen  and  amen !"  responded  the  old  man 
fervently. 

*  This  brother  Brown  was  one  of  the  Fifth  Monarchy  men,  who,  in  the  time  ol 
Charles  II,  were  constantly  looking  for  the  second  coming  of  Christ "  without 
sin,"(or  a  sin  offering,)  "  unto  salvation." 


A  FRIEND   IN   NEED.  277 

"  My  child,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  to  Mary,  in  a  voice 
of  most  motherly  affection,  "  you  are  weak  and  tired. 
Here  lay  down  on  this  little  bed,  and  rest  you  until  you 
get  something  to  eat." 

Mary  heeded  her  bidding,  and  was  soon  wrapt  in 
unbroken  slumber. 

Mrs.  Brown  busied  herself  to  prepare  something  for 
her  husband  and  Mary  to  eat. 

"  How  sweet  the  poor  girl  looks,"  said  the  wife  to 
the  old  man,  as,  standing  by  the  little  side  table,  she 
pointed  to  Mary,  who  lay  sleeping  with  head  reclined 
on  one  tliin  frail  hand,  while  the  other  rested  gently  on 
the  blue  spread  by  her  side.  Her  hair  fell  partially 
over  her  pale,  sad  face,  showing  in  broken  outline  the 
calm  features.  The  lips  were  slightly  parted,  for  she 
slept  with  the  heaviness  of  intense  weariness  both  of 
body  and  mind.  Her  white  kerchief,  partly  opened, 
revealed  a  neck  of  snowy  whiteness  and  delicate  pro 
portions.  Her  respiration  was  deep  and  slow.  The 
tired  frame  sought  to  recuperate  itself. 

"  She  is  a  sweet,  pretty  child,"  replied  the  old  man, 
gazing  at  her  earnestly.  "  I  wish  we  had  such  a  girl, 
Jane." 

"  "Would  you  want  her  blind  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  Jane — just  as  this  dear  child  of  Bro.  Bunyan 
is.  She  is  so  innocent  and  so  kind.  I  would  be 
willing  to  nurse  her  and  tend  her  all  the  days  of  my 
life.  She  is  so  gentle  and  so  pretty." 

"  "What  will  we  do  about  going  to  meeting  to  night, 
John  ?  we  can't  leave  this  child  here  alone,  and  she 
will  be  too  tired  to  go  with  us." 

"  "When  she  wakes  up  we  will  tell  her  how  it  is,  and 


278  MARY   BUNYAN. 

if  she  can't  go,  we  can  send  for  Ellen  Carter  to  stay 
here  with  her." 

Mrs.  Brown  went  to  the  kitchen  to  see  about  the  tea. 
The  old  gentleman  sat  by  the  doorway,  and  gave  him 
self  up  to  thought.  He  sat  where  he  could  see  the 
sleeping  girl,  and  ever  and  anon  his  look  rested  upon 
the  pale,  calm  face,  while  his  eyes  grew  moist,  and 
then  the  big  tears  would  course  slowly  down  his 
wrinkled  face. 


CHAPTER  XXI11. 

GOB  S  HIDDEN  ONE  S T  HE  SMALL  UPPER  ROOM. 

WHILE  persecution  raged,  the  Nonconformists  were 
driven  to  seek  private  places  for  worship,  lest  the  insa 
tiable  enemy  should  spy  them  out,  and  report  them  to 
the  law.  They  were  also  compelled  to  hold  their 
meetings  at  such  times  as  the  eye  of  hate  could  not 
discover  them.  An  obscure  upper  room,  a  barn  loft, 
the  midnight  depths  of  the  forest,  an  humble  unobtru 
sive  homesteading,  the  midnight  hour,  the  early  morn 
ing  dawn — these  were  the  places  and  times  where  and 
when  the  hunted,  down-trodden  children  of  God  met 
together  to  call  upon  his  name,  and  to  encourage  the 
fainting  hearts  of  each  other  as  they  journeyed  along 
the  thorny  path  of  duty. 

Bunyan,  before  the  rigorous  sentence  was  passed 
that  "  he  should  not  go  beyond  the  prison  walls,"  was 
oftentimes  compelled  to  disguise  himself  as  a  cartman, 
and  appear  with  a  cartman's  whip  in  his  hand,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  assemble  himself-with  the  little  flock 
and  break  unto  them  the  bread  of  eternal  life ;  and 
oftentimes  he  had  to  enter  through  the  back  door,  and 
escape  by  the  same  way,  that  he  might  elude  the 
vigilance  of  the  blood-hounds  who  were  ever  on  his 
track. 

In  London,  the  "  Fifth   Monarchy  men,"  or  those 

(279) 


280  MAKY    BUNYAN. 

who  were  looking  for  the  immediate  coming  of  Christ, 
had  rendered  themselves  particularly  odious  to  both 
state  and  church.  They  were  compelled  to  meet  under 
the  cover  of  night,  and  to  use  every  precaution  that 
would  insure  profound  secresy.  Their  steps  were 
dogged  by  officers  of  the  law,  intent  on  bringing 
"  these  vile  miscreants  to  justice  ;"  and,  when  discov 
ered,  as  they  sometimes  were  by  these  Argus-eyed 
pursuers,  they  had  to  secrete  their  bibles  in  secret 
places,  provided  for  that  purpose,  and  let  themselves 
down  through  trap-doors  ;  or,  like  the  Apostle  Paul, 
make  their  escape  through  windows,  that  they  might 
not  meet  the  fiery  vengeance  of  fiendish  hate  and 
malice. 

We,  who  live  in  the  present  age  of  religious  tolera 
tion  and  freedom  from  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction,  can 
form  but  faint  conception  of  the  trials  and  sufferings 
of  those  of  our  forefathers  in  the  faith,  who  stood  as 
witnesses  for  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Christ  Jesus,  when  the 
bloody  hand  of  persecution  marked  all  such  out  for  the 
prison,  the  stake,  or  the  gibbet. 

Nearly  two  hundred  years  ago,  in  an  upper  room  of 
an  old  building  in  Southwark,  a  small  company  of  men 
and  women  had  assembled  to  worship  God.  The  house 
stood  very  near  the  present  site  of  the  New  Park 
Street  Chapel. 

It  is  a  memorable  locality  to  Baptists. 

Here,  more  than  a  century  later  than  the  time  of 
which  we  write,  did  John  Gill,  that  man  of  God,  stand 
as  a  witness  for  those  truths  for  which  Bunyan,  and  the 
Hewlings,  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  and  many  others,  suf 
fered  imprisonment  and  death.  And  now,  in  the  same 
spot,  at  this  day,  Spurgeon  stands,  to  proclaim  and 


GOD'S   HIDDEN   ONES.  281 

defend  these  same  immutable  gospel  truths.  God  has 
never  left  himself  without  a  witness  in  Southwark, 
London. 

The  beginning  was  small  ;  a  few  persons  gathered 
together  in  his  name,  in  a  small  upper  room  of  an  old 
building — defamed,  pursued,  maltreated.  Now,  there 
stands  very  near  the  same  spot  a  handsome  new  edifice, 
where  thousands  gather  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath,  to 
listen  to  the  everlasting  gospel,  and  to  worship  God 
Most  High  in  the  beauty  of  holiness.  Hath  not  the 
mighty  arm  of  Jehovah  gotten  to  himself  a  great  vic 
tory  ?  And  should  we  not,  in  view  of  these  facts,  pray 
with  increased  faith  for  the  ushering  in  of  that  glorious 
period,  when  "  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  are  to  be 
come  the  kingdoms  of  our  Lord  and  of  his  Christ,  and 
he  shall  reign  forever  and  ever  ?" 

The  night  was  quite  advanced.  The  noise  and  activ 
ity  of  the  past  day  were  hushed  to  silence.  In  the 
small  upper  room  of  the  old  building  we  have  men 
tioned,  a  little  company  of  disciples  had  come  together 
for  the  purpose  of  prayer.  They  had  met  thus  late 
that  they  might  escape  the  eye  of  the  detecter.  It  was 
a  plain,  untenanted  room,  situated  at  the  head  of  a 
stairway  which  communicated  with  the  street,  through 
a  narrow,  dark  alley,  into  which  no  lantern  flung  its 
sickly  glare. 

One  by  one  the  few  brethren  and  sisters  had  gath 
ered  themselves  together  to  explain  the  Scriptures, 
and  to  pray.  There  were  old  and  young  men,  hoary 
headed  matrons  and  maidens — all  moved  by  the  same 
spirit,  actuated  by  the  same  motives,  and  pressing  on 
towards  the  same  goal,- — even  everlasting  life  at  God's 
right  hand.  It  was' a  touching  scene,  thus  to  see  these 


MARY   BUNTAN. 

true  disciples  of  the  Saviour  assembled  at  the  midnight 
hour  in  this  small  upper  room,  away  from  the  know 
ledge  of  man,  that  they  might  worship  God  as  they 
thought  acceptable  to  Him — that  they  might  in  secur 
ity  and  in  truth  follow  him  in  the  ways  of  his  own 
appointment.  Let  us  look  at  them. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room,  into  which  the  feeble 
lamp  scarce  throws  its  sickly  light,  sits  the  blind  girl, 
between  her  aged  friends.  Her  face,  so  pale  but  a  lit 
tle  while  ago,  is  flushed  now  with  excitement.  But  no 
one  observes  her,  and  even  if  they  did,  it  would  mat 
ter  but  little  to  her.  Her  sealed  eyes  would  bring  no 
intelligence  of  it  to  her  sensitive,  shrinking  heart.  JSTo 
on 3  notices  that  she  is  a  stranger.  The  attention  of  all 
present  is  directed  to  a  middle-aged  man,  who  sits  near 
one  of  the  lamps,  with  a  bible  in  his  hand.  One  of  the 
company  present  goes  to  the  door — listens  a  moment, 
then,  shuts  it  carefully,  and  fastening  it  securely  from 
within,  returns  and  takes  his  seat.  They  are  compelled 
to  use  every  precaution. 

The  middle  aged  man  rises  and  addresses  the  little 
assembly.  His  words  are  full  of  brotherly  love  and 
encouragement.  He  repeats  the  blessed  words  of  our 
Saviour  :  "  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled  :  ye  believe 
in  God,  believe  also  in  me,"  &c.  In  a  deep,  earnest 
tone  he  reads  the  14th  chapter  of  John,  commenting 
as  he  proceeds.  His  remarks  fell  with  soothing  effect 
on  tlie^  listening  part  of  the  pious  assembly. 

The  little  company  kneel,  and  a  fervent  prayer  as 
cends  to  God  for  his  presence  in  their  midst,  for  his 
guidance  and  support  in  the  trying  difficulties  and  op 
pression  which  now  surround  them,  and  for  victory 
over  the  flesh,  the  world,  and  the 'devil.  A  song  is 


GOD'S  HIDDEN  ONES.  283 

sung,  then  a  brother  rises  to  exhort  those  present  to  a 
doubling  of  their  diligence,  that  they  may  make  their 
calling  and  election  sure,  and  to  patient  continuance  in 
well-doing,  that  may  inherit  eternal  life.  He  speaks 
of  his  conflicts,  of  foes  within  and  foes  without,  and 
then,  in  tones  of  melting  tenderness,  he  dwells  on  the 
love  of  God — the  compassion  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
who,  for  our  sakes,  became  poor — of  the  joys  of  hea 
ven — of  the  certainty  of  the  promises — until  every 
heart  is  moved,  and  each  face  bathed  in  tears,  looks  ra 
diant  with  the  joy  which  passeth  knowledge. 

Mary's  heart  is  troubled.  She  feels  as  she  has  never 
felt  before.  Tears  are  streaming  from  her  sightless  eyes— 
but  they  are  not  tears  of  joys  ;  they  are  not  tears  of  re 
pentance.  The  Spirit  is  at  work  about  her  heart.  She 
has  sinned  against  the  high  and  holy  God,  and  these 
sins,  "  red  as  crimson,"  now  stand  in  dreadful  array  be 
fore  her.  ]STo  one  heeds  her  ;  each  is  so  engaged  with 
matters  pertaining  to  himself,  that  the  unobtrusive  girl 
ecapes  unobserved.  She  strives  to  suppress  her  tears 
— endeavors  to  conceal  her  sorrow.  Satan  is  contest 
ing  every  inch  of  territory.  He  will  not  be  vanquished. 
But  he  "  who  worketh,  and  none  can  hinder,"  hath 
commissioned  his  holy  spirit  to  go  forth  to  convict  of 
sin.  "Which  shall  have  the  mastery  ? 

One,  and  another,  and  another,  rises  to  bear  testi 
mony  for  Jesus.  It  is  a  time  of  confession  and  of  sup 
plication.  Enemies  are  abroad  and  the  enemy  is 
within.  The  dreadful  pestilence  walketh  at  noon-day. 
Friends  and  acquaintances  are  falling  on  every  side. 
The  times  are  perilous  !  When  will  succor  come  ? 

In  song,  and  prayer,  and  confession,  the  time  is 
spent.  A  poor  sister,  one  of  the  faithful  of  the  Lord, 


284:  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

rises  to  ask  prayer  for  her  unconverted  son.  He  wan- 
ders  day  by  day  in  the  paths  of  the  wicked  one,  and 
sets  aside  all  counsel,  and  heeds  no  reproof.  But  she 
remembers  the  promises  of  God — "  are  yea  and  amen 
in  Christ  Jesus  ;"  and  she  will  trust.  Another  sister 
has  a  husband  ungodly  and  unconcerned  ;  "  pray  for 
my  dear  husband,"  she  cries,  that  he  may  not  go  down 
to  eternal  burnings." 

"  Kemember  my  father,"  entreats  a  maiden  ;  "  pray 
God  that  he  may  not  be  cut  off  in  his  sins.  He  is  a 
bold  blasphemer.  O  Lord  have  mercy  upon  him,"  she 
exclaims,  while  her  heart  almost  breaks  with  anguish. 

"  And  pray  for  me,"  said  Mary,  rising  to  her  feet. 
"  I  am  a  poor,  lost  sinner.  Oh,  ask  God  to  pardon  me." 
Her  voice,  low  and  sweet,  is  broken  by  her  sobs.  Her 
eyes  are  streaming  with  tears,  and  her  hands  are  held 
beseechingly  out. 

"This  is  Bro.  Bunyan's  daughter,"  said  old  Bro. 
Brown — rising  to  his  feet,  and  grasping  the  hand  of 
Mary.  "  I  found  her  in  the  streets  of  London,  when 
it  was  almost  night,  wandering  without  any  home,  and 
now  God  has  sent  his  spirit  to  call  back  her  soul  from 
its  wanderings  in  the  paths  of  sin .  Blessed  be  his  holy 
name.  Let  us  beseech  God,  my  brethren,  in  her  be 
half.  Oh,  let  us  thank  Him  that  he  doth  manifest  him 
self  to  his  children,  as  he  doth  not  to  the  world.  Glory 
to  His  holy  name  !  He  is  mighty  and  willing  to 
save," 

"  Bless  his  dear  name — the  precious  name  of  Je 
sus,"  exclaims  sister  Brown,  as  she  throws  her  arms 
around  Mary,  and  kneels  by  her  side. 

The  old  man  cries  unto  the  Lord  for  his  mercy  on  the 
clear  child.  "  I  will  not  let  thee  go  until  thou  bless  me" 


GOD  8   HIDDEN   ONES. 

is  tlie  spirit  of  his  prayer.  Each  case  is  remembered 
before  the  throne  of  Almighty  Grace — the  son,  the 
husband,  the  father,  the  poor  blind  child  of  the  suf 
fering  brother,  and  for  each  ascends  a  deep,  heart-bur 
dened  petition.  The  cry  goes  up  to  the  ear  of  God  of 
Sabbaoth,  who  hears  and  answers  whenever  his  chil 
dren  cry  to  him  in  faith. 

And  now  the  little  company  is  about  to  disperse. 
They  have  assembled  themselves  together  in  the  name 
of  their  blessed  Lord  and  Master,  and  he  has  been  in 
their  midst.  "  Happy  are  the  people  whose  God  is 
the  Lord  ;  they  shall  be  continually  praising  Him." 

They  all  gather  around  Mary.  She  is  the  daughter 
of  Bunyan,  of  whom  they  have  heard.  They  love  her 
for  her  father's  sake,  and  they  want  to  point  her  to 
the  Lamb  of  God,  who  takes  away  the  sin  of  the  world, 
that  she  may  have  peace  and  joy  in  believing. 

"  Look  to  Christ,  my  child,  our  blessed  Lord  and  Sa 
viour,  who  died  that  sinners  might  live.  Seek  pardon 
through  his  blood.  He  is  willing  and  able.  He  has 
saved  thousands  of  sinners,  my  child,  as  vile  and 
wretched  as  you  are,  and  he  can  save  you.  Don't  fear 
to  come  to  him  ;  he  will  not  cast  you  out.  He  came 
into  this  world  to  seek  and  to  save  that  which  was  lost. 
Trust  in  him.  O  thou  blessed  Saviour — thou  Jesus  of 
Nazareth— who  died  for  poor  perishing  sinners,  have 
mercy  on  this  poor  child,  and  forgive  her  sins.  Oh,  that 
my  son  would  come  to  Jesus !  oh,  that  he  could  feel 
himself  a  sinner  before  God ;"  and  the  poor  old'  wo 
man,  almost  exhausted  by  her  tears  and  cries,  clasps 
her  hands  in  agony,  and  offers  up  a  prayer,  interrupted 
by  tears  and  sighs,  for  Mary,  and  her  erring  son. 

It  is  the  mother  of  "William  Dormer.      "William  lias 


286  MARY   BUflYAN. 

not  yet  turned  to  God.  Day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  has  the  heart  of  the  mother  gone  up  in  fervent 
prayer,  that  God  would  have  mercy  on  her  son.  He  is 
her  only  hope  now.  Her  daughters  are  all  dead. 
They  departed  in  the  triumphant  faith  of  the  gospel. 
The  father  is  still  in  prison,  and  she  has  come  to  South- 
wark,  that  she  may  be  with  her  son.  She  desires  to 
spend  the  remnant  of  her  days  on  earth,  watching  over 
him,  and  praying  for  him. 

The  little  company  sing  a  hymn  in  a  low,  subdued 
voice,  and  then  the  servant  of  God  pronounces  the 
benediction. 

"  This  is  our  dear  brother  Bunyan's  daughter,  sister 
Dormer,"  says  old  sister  Brown  to  the  dear  old  woman 
who  has  just  prayed. 

Mary  starts  at  the  sound  of  her  name. 

"  Your  husband  is  in  the  same  prison  with  her  father 
— the  old  jail  at  Bedford" — resumes  Mrs.  Brown,  not 
observing  Mary's  agitation. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  old  man  is  there,  because  he  would 
preach  the  gospel  of  Christ.  And  this  is  really  Bro. 
Bunyan's  daughter  ?  Poor,  dear  child  ;  how  did  you 
come  down  to  this  place — and  blind,  too.  Poor  child  1" 

Mrs.  Brown  explains  the  matter  to  her. 

"  Ah,  dear  child,  the  Lord  has  been  with  you.  He 
alone  could  have  rescued  you,  and  sent  you  here  where 
his  Spirit  has  come,  to  knock  at  your  heart.  Do  not 
grieve  that  Spirit,  but  invite  him  to  come  in  and  be  a 
guest.  Never  give  up  seeking,  my  child,  until  you 
tind  Christ  precious  to  your  soul.  Oh,  that  my  poor 
William  may  be  led,  like  you,  to  see  himself  a  sin 
ner." 

The  words  thrilled  Marv's  being. 


GOD'S  HIDDEN  OKES.  287 

"  I  want  to  go  to  Mrs.  Gaunt,"  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Brown  with  childish  simplicity,  as  they  reached  the 
door.  "  She  will  be  wondering  why  I  don't  come  home  ; 
won't  some  body  take  me  to  her  ?" 

"  You  cannot  go  to-night  my  child,"  replied  the  old 
man  tenderly.  "  We  do  not  know  where  sister  Gaunt 
lives." 

"  She  lives  in  Drury  Lane,"  interrupted  Mary  ea 
gerly. 

"  But  we  could  not  find  her  now,  and,  besides,  it  is  a 
long  walk.  You  cannot  go  to-night." 

"  Will  anybody  take  me  to-morrow  ?"  she  asks  be 
seechingly.  "I  must  go,  she  will  be  so  distressed 
about  me." 

"  If  we  can  find  the  way,  child  ;  you  cannot  see  to 
tell  us,  you  know.  Brother  Dorrow,  said  the  old  man, 
addressing  the  preacher,  "  do  you  know  where  sister 
Gaunt  lives — sister  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  the  woman  who 
does  so  much  for  the  poor  and  needy  ?" 

"  No,  Brother  Brown,  I  do  not  ;  I  have  heard  a  great 
deal  of  sister  Gaunt,  and  have  seen  her  two  or  three 
times,  but  I  do  not  know  where  she  lives." 

The  question  was  asked  of  all  those  of  the  little 
company  there  convened,  but  no  one  knew  where  she 
resided.  The  only  individual,  wido\v  Dormer,  who 
could  have  given  any  information,  had  left.  Poor 
child,  it  seemed  that  disappointment  awaited  her  on 
every  hand.  She  longed  to  fly  to  Mrs.  Gaunt  that  she 
might  tell  her  all  she  felt.  She  could  not  speak  her 
feelings  freely  to  strangers.  She  believed  that  Mrs. 
Gaunt  could  direct  her  to  the  Saviour.  Could  she  but 
unbosom  herself  to  her  own  dear  father, — could  she 
but  tell  him  all  she  suffered,  and  ask  him  to  pray  for 


288  MARY   BUNYAN. 

her,  it  seemed  her  burden  of  guilt  would  be  removed, 
and  she  be  able  to  rejoice  in  the  pardon  oflier  sins. 

She  must  do  something  to  recommend  herself  to 
God,  something  whereby  to  secure  his  favor,  and  make 
him  willing  to  forgive  her.  Such  was  the  temptation 
Satan  was  now  besieging  her  with. 

Alas,  how  many  in  all  ages  of  the  world  have  had 
to  wage  war  against  the  same  wiles  of  the  devil,  do 
something  to  merit  divine  favor,  when  all  we  can  do  is 
to  feel  we  can  do  nothing,  and  to  fall  into  the  out 
stretched  arms  of  our  great  Redeemer,  who  wrought 
out  our  salvation  amid  tears  and  anguish  on  Mount 
Calvary. 

Mary  believed  she  or  Mrs.  Gaunt,  or  her  father, 
must  do  something  before  she  could  be  reconciled  to 
God  ;  something  to  fit  her  for  adoption  into  the  family 
of  the  Most  High.  She  could  not  see  that  "  all  the  fit 
ness  he  requireth  is  to  feel  our  need  of  Him."  The 
eyes  of  her  understanding  were  not  opened ;  the 
enemy  of  souls  was  plying  hard  his  wiles  to  keep  her 
from  a  true  knowledge  of  the  way.  She  could  not  yet 
say— 

"  Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring, 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling." 

The  remainder  of  the  night  was  spent  by  the  blind 
girl  in  fervent  prayer  and  meditation.  She  was 
seeking  Jesus,  he  of  whom  "  Moses  in  the  law  and  the 
prophets  did  write ;"  he  who  is  to  his  people  all  in  all, 
and  to  the  sinner  "  born  again,"  "  the  chiefest  among 
ten  thousand  and  altogether  lovely." 

The  morning  dawn  found  Mary  troubled  and 
anxious.  She  endeavored  to  suppress  and  conceal  her 
feelings,  but  she  could  not.  This  was  another  sugges- 


GOD'S  HIDDEN  ONES.  289 

tion  of  the  adversary  of  her  soul ;  he  was  appealing  to 
the  pride  of  her  heart. 

Oli !  thou  arch-fiend,  how  ever  ready  thou  art  to 
beguile  the  children  of  that  mother  whom  thou  didst 
persuade  to  taste  of  the  forbidden  fruit ! 

The  threatenings  of  Sinai  sounded  through  the 
awakened  conscience  of  Mary  the  death-knell  of  all 
her  hope.  She  had  broken  the  law  which  was  "  lioly, 
just,  and  good,"  and  "  whosoever  breaketh  one  of  the 
least  of  these  commandments  is  guilty  of  the  whole." 
How  could  she  escape  the  penalty  annexed  to  the 
transgression,  even  eternal  damnation  !  "  Cursed  is 
every  one  that  continueth  not  in  all  things  which  are 
written  in  the  book  of  the  law  to  do  them."  She  had 
heard  this  fearful  sentence  fall  from  the  lips  of  her 
father,  and  from  those  of  the  "  holy  Gifford,"  but 
hitherto  they  had  seemed  possessed  of  but  little  mean 
ing.  Now  they  rung  through  her  awakened  soul  in 
awful  notes  of  condemnation.  How  could  she  be 
accepted  of  God  ?  how  restore  herself  to  his  favor  ? 
The  more  she  looked  into  her  heart,  the  more  fully  she 
saw  that  she  was  a  slave  sold  under  sin.  How  could 
she  relieve  herself  of  this  fearful  bondage  ?  She  must 
do  something  to  reconcile  her  to  an  incensed  Jehovah, 
who  is  "  angry  with  the  wicked  every  day,  and  who 
cannot  look  upon  sin  with  the  least  degree  of  allow 
ance."  In  her  deep  anguish  she  forgot  that  "  Christ 
hath  redeemed  us  from  the  curse  of  the  law,  being 
made  a  curse  for  us."  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are 
weary  and  heavy  laden,  and  you  shall  find  rest  for 
your  souls."  She  heard  the  voice  of  his  Spirit  thus 
calling  her ;  "  but  how  could  she  come  unto  him 
wretched  and  sinful  as  she  was  ?  She  must  wait  until 

13 


290  MART   BUNYAN. 

she  could  feel  that  she  had  a  right  to  receive."  Ah, 
poor  child,  how  blind  !  ! 

Mary  was  sitting  alone  in  the  room  which  looked 
out  upon  the  street.  She  was  pale  and  haggard,  and 
the  traces  of  mental  anguish  were  visible  in  the  down 
cast  countenance.  Her  head  rested  upon  her  hand. 
Her  whole  attitude  was  expressive  of  deep  thought 
and  sorrow ;  no  one  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  could 
mistake  this.  Her  hair  hung  loosely  over  her  shoulders. 
Sighs  escaped  her  heaving  bosom,  and  ever  and  anon 
the  big  tears  would  gather  in  her  sightless  eyes,  and 
roll  down  her  marble-like  cheeks.  She  was  dressed  as 
we  have  described  her  on  the  preceding  evening. 
The  clean  white  three-cornered  handkerchief  pinned 
over  her  dark  tight-fitting  boddice.  She  was  thinking 
on  her  lost  condition. 

The  front  door,  which  stood  ajar,  opened,  and  persons 
entered.  The  sound  of  foot-falls  arrested  her  attention. 
She  was  frightened,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Stay,  child,"  said  a  kindly  voice.  "  I  have  brought 
William  to  see  you.  Don't  be  running  oif." 

Mary  paused  as  she  recognized  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Dormer.  She  looked  confused.  William  was  before 
her.  Blushing,  she  timidly  held  out  her  hand,  as  she 
heard  the  young  man  and  his  mother  approaching  her. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mary  ?" 

It  was  the  same  manly  voice,  the  same  sweet  intona 
tions.  Mary's  heart  beat  quick  and  high.  The 
changing  color  of  her  cheek — now  a  soft  rose-hue,  and 
then  again  so  pale — bespoke  her  deep  emotion.  The 
young  man  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to  the 
seat  she  had  just  vacated. 


GOD'S   HIDDEN   ONES.  291 

Mrs.  Dormer  slipped  to  the  kitchen  to  see  Mrs. 
Brown. 

Poor,  frightened  dove  ;  her  heart  beat  audibly,  and 
her  whole  frame  trembled.  The  color  was  in  William 
Dormer's  cheek,  too,  and  a  look  of  soft  tenderness  in 
his  eye,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  fragile  form  and  blushing 
face  before  him.  But  Mary  knew  it  not.  Yet  the 
subdued  tone,  so  tremulous,  which  voiced  words  of 
kindly  inquiry,  spoke  to  her  quick  ear  and  sensitive 
heart  far  more  readily  than  changing  aspect  could 
have  done  to  the  most  perfect  vision.  It  rolled  in 
upon  her  soul  in  waves  of  sweetest  harmony,  but  was 
not  potent  enough  to  drive  away  the  trouble  of  her 
heart. 

She  sat  with  downcast  eyes  and  agitated  frame, 
awaiting  some  remark  from  William. 

"You  can  go  home  now,  my  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  as  she  entered  the  room  where  Mary  and 
William  sat,  her  sweet,  benignant  face  all  sunned  with 
smiles.  "  You  can  go  to  see  Mrs.  Gaunt  now,  for 
William  here  knows  where  she  lives,  and  his  mother 
says  he  can  go  with  you.  I  have  just  been  telling  her 
how  you  wanted  to  go  last  night,  after  meeting." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  go  to  Drury  Lane,  Mary  ?" 
asked  William  of  her,  as  she  sat  with  her  face,  now 
bright  with  hope,  upturned  in  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Brown's  voice.  "  The  plague  has  broken  out  there 
too." 

"  Oh,  then  you  must  stay  here  in  Southwark  with  us," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dormer,  whose  eyes,  riveted  on  the 
lovely  girl  before  her,  wore  a  look  of  deep  solicitude. 

"  Please  let  me  go,"  said  Mary. 

The  tone  was  so  sweet  and  so  beseeching-,  that  the 


292  MABT   BUNTAN, 

two  old  women  could  not  interpose  any  farther  objec 
tions. 

"  Please  let  me  go  now  ?"  said  Mary,  in  the  silence 
that  followed  her  earnest  entreaty.  "  William,  will  yon 
take  me  now?"  she  asked  of  the  young  man,  who 
stood  bending  over  her,  while  the  blood  mounted  to 
her  temples  and  her  voice  trembled.  "  I  must  go  to 
Mrs.  Gaunt ;  she  does  not  know  where  I  am.  Marga 
ret  cannot  tell  her,  for  she  left  me  in  the  street." 

"  Poor  Margaret,"  she  added,  as  the  thought  of  her 
companion  flashed  across  her  mind,  "  I  wonder  if  she 
got  home  ?" 

"  Who,  Mary,"  asked  William,  «  Margaret  Pnrdy  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  left  me  in  the  street  yesterday.  We  got 
lost,  and  she  said  she  would  go  and  find  somebody  to 
take  us  home.  I  have  not  seen  her  since.  I  hope 
somebody  took  her  back  to  Drury  Lane." 

"  We'll  see  when  we  get  there,"  replied  "William. 

Mary  tied  on  her  bonnet  to  leave.  The  two  good 
old  women  commended  her  to  the  care  of  God. 

"  We  may  never  meet  on  earth  again,  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown,  as  she  held  the  blind  girl  by  the  hand, 
while  tears  ran  down  her  aged  cheeks.  "  But  don't 
give  up  the  good  work  which  God's  spirit  has  begun  in 
your  young  heart,  and  we  will  meet  after  awhile  in 
heaven.  Go  on,  my  child,  and  may  God  be  with  you." 
Mr.  Brown,  who  had  just  come  home  from  visiting  a 
sick  brother,  added  his  blessing  to  that  of  his  wife  and 
Mrs.  Dormer,  and  Mary  and  "William  departed. 

"  God  bless  thee,  sweet  child,"  said  the  old  man,  as 
he  looked  after  the  child,  "  God  bless  her,  for  her 
father's  sake." 


GOD'S  HIDDEN  ONES.  293 

"  And  her  own,  too,"  added  the  wife  ;  "  she  is  a 
good,  darling  girl." 

The  two  passed  hurriedly  on  up  High  Street  to  the 
old  bridge,  the  hollow  sound  of  which  filled  Mary's 
heart  with  terror.  They  did  not  speak.  Neither  one 
seemed  to  know  how  to  break  the  deep  silence.  Just 
as  they  crossed  Fleet  Street,  a  death-cart  rolled  before 
them,  and  the  driver  called  out  in  a  cold,  hollow  tone, 
"  Bring  out  your  dead  !"  Mary  grew  suddenly  pale, 
and  grasped  the  hand  of  William  more  tightly.  He 
drew  her  closely  to  his  side,  and,  supporting  her  with 
one  arm,  quickened  his  already  rapid  pace. 

They  passed  through  Lincoln's  Inn,  deserted  by  its 
former  occupants,  who  had  fled  to  a  more  secure  aoy- 
lum,  and  which  was  now  become  the  rendezvous  of 
the  lowest  classes  of  society,  who  sought  lodgings  in 
these  comfortable  quarters.  Mary  instinctively  shrunk 
to  her  companion  for  protection,  as  she  heard  the  low 
jests  and  vulgar  oaths,  mingled  with  the  groans  and 
cries  of  sorrow,  which  escaped  from  this  motley  as 
semblage  of  wretched  beings. 

William,  entirely  unconscious  of  what  he  did,  in  his 
great  anxiety  to  protect  Mary,  dashed  on  into  Lin 
coln's  Inn  Fields,  then  an  open  square  and  mostly  un 
enclosed.  When  he  found  himself,  he  was  r.ishing 
northward,  in  the  direction  of  Holborn.  Seeii  g  his 
error,  he  turned  back,  and  passed  out  to  Drury  Lane. 
Cries  of  "  Bring  out  your  dead  !"  met  them  at  every 
step.  The  plague  was  increasing  in  violence  evei  y  day. 
But  it  had  not  yet  reached  its  worst. 

Mary  was  almost  breathless  through  fright  and  fa 
tigue  when  she  reached  Mrs.  Gaunt's  door.  They  found 
it  closed.  William,  knowing  Mrs.  Gaunt's  method  of 


294:  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

fastening  her  lock  when  she  went  out.  passed  round 
and  opened  the  house  for  Mary's  admittance. 

They  had  not  been  long  in,  before  Mrs.  Gaunt  en 
tered.  She  burst  into  a  flood  of  grateful  tears  when 
she  beheld  Mary. 

"  Poor  child  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  you  were 
lost.  I  was  sure  some  evil  had  befallen  you.  Where 
have  you  been,  Mary  ?  I  have  been  looking  the  town 
for  you.  Oh,  you  cannot  tell,  my  poor  child,  how  1 
have  been  troubled.  I  feared  you  had  been  cut  off  by 
the  plague.  Thank  God,  thank  God,  you  are  safe,  my 
child  !  "Where  is  Margaret  Purdy  ?  Did  she  come 
with  you  ?  Her  mother  is  almost  distracted.  Jane 
Sevelles  said  she  saw  you  two  go  off  together,  and  we 
feared  you  had  both  fallen  victims.  Thank  God  you 
are  safe.  But  where  is  Margaret  ?" 

Mary  told  her  the  whole  story  as  best  she  could. 
When  she  came  to  where  Margaret  had  left  her  alone 
in  the  street,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  unable  to  wait  further,  ex 
claimed  : 

"  And  havn't  you  seen  her  since,  Mary  ?" 

"  No,  ma'm,  I  never  heard  from  her  after  that.  Oh, 
it  is  so  dreadful,  if  she  is  lost,  Mrs.  Gaunt." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  if  she  has  got  back.  I  pray  that 
she>has.  Her  poor  mother  is  almost  mad  about  her." 

Poor  Margaret !  Her  mother's  eyes  shall  never 
again  in  this  world  behold  her.  She  is  even  now  strug 
gling  with  the  fell  monster,  which  heeds  not  a  mother's 
piercing  cries  for  her  lost  child,  neither  a  mother's  an 
guished  prayer.  A  few  hours  more,  and  that  daugh 
ter,  so  beloved,  shall  be  an  inmate  of  the  charnel  house 
— a  loathsome  corpse — weltering  with  the  many  that 
have  found  an  unmarked  resting  place. 


GOD'S   HIDDEN  ONES.  295 

Mrs.  Gaunt  returned,  bringing  Margaret's  mother 
with  her.  Poor  woman,  she  was  wild  to  hear  all  Mary 
had  to  say,  that  she  might  discover,  if  possible,  some  clue 
to  her  lost  daughter.  But  all  her  enquiries  were  vain. 
Mary  could  give  her  no  reliable  information.  She  did 
not  know  the  streets  of  the  great  city  by  name,  and 
she  could  not  see  to  describe  the  way.  The  mother 
had  to  return  to  her  desolate  home  heart-broken.  She 
could  gain  no  intelligence  of  her  lost  daughter. 

"  I  must  go  home,  Mrs.  Gaunt,"  Mary  said  to  the 
good  woman,  as  the  two  sat  talking  with  "William  Dor 
mer  after  the  excitement  had  measurably  subsided. 
She  spoke  in  a  very  earnest  tone,  which  betrayed  to 
Mrs.  Gaunt's  ready  mind  something  more  than  the  fear 
of  the  plague. 

"  "What  for,  Mary  ?"  she  asked,  "  you  are  not  afraid, 
are  you  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  my  father,"  answered  the  girl,  redden 
ing  with  excitement.  "  I  must  see  him,  Mrs.  Gaunt." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Mary  ?"  the  good  woman 
asked,  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  manner  of  the  blind 
girl.  She  did  not  know  but  what  the  fever  which  pre 
ceded  the  plague,  was  upon  her,  "  Are  you  sick,  my 
child  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  not  because  I  am  sick  that  I  want  to 
see  him,"  and  she  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  But  I 
must  go  home,"  she  added,  "  and  you  must  go  with  me. 
You  must  not  stay  any  longer  in  this  dreadful  city. 
You  will  die  if  you  do." 

"  "Well,  I  will  die  in  my  Master's  cause,  if  I  do,  Mary  ; 
and  he  will  give  me  my  reward.  It  matters  but  little 
where,  or  how,  I  go." 

"William  pledged  that  his  mother  should  accompany 


296  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

them.  She  had  been  desiring  for  a  long  time  to  go  up 
to  see  her  husband.  It  was  arranged  that  they  should 
set  out  the  next  day,  provided  they  all  lived. 

William  left  to  see  his  mother  and  tell  her  of  the 
plan.  Poor  woman,  she  was  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  again  beholding  her  husband.  But  she  knew  not 
all  the  good  things  in  store  for  her,  else  would  her  old 
heart  have  bounded  with  joy.  Her  prayers  were  about 
to  see  their  fulfillment.  Her  son  was  on  the  eve  of 
the  "  new  birth." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE     BAPTISM     OP     MART. 

MAEY  and  her  friends  reached  Bedford  safely.  Her 
first  act  was  to  find  out  her  father  in  his  low,  damp 
cell,  and  pour  into  his  ear  all  her  distress. 

"  Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  Almighty,"  he  exclaimed 
as  he  listened  to  her  words.  "  Blessed  be  his  holy 
name  for  this  great  favor  which  he  has  vouchsafed  to 
me.  Now  I  know  that  he  is  the  Lord  my  Redeemer, 
and  that  he  has  heard  the  voice  of  my  supplication." 

Tears  of  joy  and  thanksgiving  streamed  down  his 
pale  cheeks  as  he  knelt  beside  his  blind  girl  and 
prayed  fervently  that  Christ  Jesus  would  manifest 
himself  unto  her,  "  chiefest  among  ten  thousand,  and 
the  one  altogether  lovely."  He  remembered  how  the 
thunders  of  Sinai  had  driven  her  soul  to  the  very  verge 
of  despair  ;  and  as  he  gazed  upon  the  worn  cheek,  and 
sad,  suffering  face  of  his  dear  child,  his  heart  was 
almost  broken  with  tender  solicitude  for  her.  Never 
did  mortal  man  pour  into  the  ear  of  the  Infinite  Jeho 
vah  a  more  earnest  supplication  than  did  John 
Bunyan,  as  he  knelt  beside  his  blind  sin-stricken 
Mary. 

And  his  prayer  did  not  long  remain  unanswered. 

Jesus,  who  is  so  full  of  compassion,  whose  heart  is 
love  itself,  bent  from  heaven  to  list  the  cry  of  his 

(2971  H* 


298  MARY   BUNTAN. 

faithful  servant,  and  to  Mary  he  gave  an  answer  of 
peace  and  joy.  "While  the  father  was  yet  speaking, 
Jesus  manifested  himself  unto  Mary,  a  Saviour  able 
and  willing  to  save  her  from  her  sins.  She  cast  her 
self  upon  his  bosom.  It  was  all  that  she  could  do 
And  her  sins  which  were  as  scarlet  were  made  whiter 
than  snow. 

There  was  a  meeting  in  the  cottage  home  of  El  stow. 
But  the  father  was  not  there.  The  stony  walls  of  the 
prison  bound  him.  But  many  were  present  with  whom 
he  had  prayed,  and  wept,  and  rejoiced.  That  holy 
man  of  God,  Mr.  Gifford,  was  there,  who,  from  the 
time  of  his  most  remarkable  conversion  to  the  day  of 
his  death,  "  lost  not  the  light  of  God's  countenance — no, 
not  for  an  hour."*  And  neighbor  Harrow  and  Goody 
Harrow  were  there.  And  the  London  friends  were 
present,  together  with  others  of  God's  faithful  fol 
lowers  at  Elstow  and  Bedford. 

To  this  pious  assembly,  met  for  the  worship  of  God, 
Mary,  with  throbbing  heart  and  beaming  face,  told 
what  the  Lord  had  done  for  her  soul.  Her  story  was 
a  simple  one,  and  clear  and  convincing.  It  was  a 
joyous  time  to  the  despised  disciples.  Their  hearts 
took  fresh  courage.  The  "  holy  Gifford,"  who  had 
directed  the  steps  of  the  father,  when,  faltering,  des 
pairing,  he  was  plunging  on  through  the  darkest  night 
of  that  most  wonderful  experience,  until  he  had  found 
peace  through  faith  in  the  blood  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  now  welcomed  into  the  little  church  the 
daughter  who  was  partaker  of  the  same  like  precious 
faith,  having  been  cleansed  and  purified  by  the  same 
precious  blood. 

•  Southey'i  Bunyan. 


THE   BAPTISM   OF  MAKY. 

It  was  an  Ebenezer  for  the  little  church  at  Elstovv. 
God  blessed  the  occasion,  to  the  building  up  in  faith 
and  love  of  his  afflicted  saints,  and  also  in  sending 
conviction  to  the  heart  of  William  Dormer,  who  sat  a 
silent  but  deeply  interested  spectator  of  the  joyous 
scene. 

While  these  scenes  were  transpiring  at  the  "  cottage," 
the  prisoner  in  his  noisome  cell,  like  Paul  and  Silas  at 
Phillippi,  was  praying  and  praising  God.  He  was  a 
freeman,  for  Christ  had  made  him  free  though  massive 
walls  shut  him  in  from  the  daylight.  He  was  inheritor 
of  the  riches  of  the  universe,  for  Christ  was  his,  though 
he  had  naught  earthly  he  could  call  his  own  but  his 
Bible,  Concordance,  Book  of  Martyrs,  and  rose-bush. 

The  morning  dawned.  That  morning  Mary  was  to 
be  baptized.  It  was  thus  arranged  that  they  might 
not  be  disturbed  by  the  populace,  or  be  informed 
against  by  those  who  sought  their  destruction. 
Through  the  live-long  night  the  father,  like  the 
Psalmist,  had  "  communed  with  God  from  off  his  bed." 

The  faint  grey  light  of  the  morning  found  its  way 
into  the  prisoner's  cell.  He  arose  and  prayed.  The 
sun,  climbing  up  the  hill-sides,  was  beginning  to 
throw  its  first  soft  beams  of  glory  over  the  earth. 

The  prisoner  sat  at  his  grated  window.  The  light  of 
blissful  hope  and  joyous  expectation  made  radiant  his 
care-seamed  countenance.  He  had  put  on  his  best 
attire,  for  to  him  it  was  a  holy  day.  His  Bible  rested 
on  his  knee.  He  had  been  reading  its  glorious  prom 
ises,  and  meditating  thereon  until  his  soul  was  filled 
with  joy  ;  until  he  could  exclaim  in  all  the  freeness  of 
undimmed  faith,  "  Abba,  Father,  my  Lord  and  my 
God."  His  concordance  and  Book  of  Martyrs  lay  on  a 


300  MARY   BUNYAN. 

settle  by  his  side.  The  rose-bush,  which,  to  him,  had 
been  a  beautiful  companion  ever  since  that  fearful  day 
when  the  prison  doors  barred  out  all  liberty,  stood 
blooming  beside  him,  sending  forth  upon  the  close, 
damp  air  of  the  cell  the  little  fragrance  that  the  morn 
ing  breeze  evolved.  His  long  hair  was  thrown  back 
from  his  expansive  brow,  and,  dressed  in  the  fashion  of 
that  day,  fell  over  his  broad  and  manly  shoulders. 
"With  looks  of  deep  anxiety  he  peered  through  the 
heavy  bars  of  the  narrow  window.  The  "  lilied  Ouse" 
was  before  him,  its  crystal  waters  softly  murmuring 
their  onward  way  to  the  sea.  Years  before  he  had 
been  buried  with  Christ  in  baptism  in  these  same 
waters. 

The  scene  came  vividly  up  before  his  imagination, 
and  with  electric  rapidity  he  ran  over  the  time  which 
had  intervened  between  that  memorable  occurrence 
and  the  present  hour.  And  all  along  the  way,  in 
darkness  and  in  light,  he  saw  the  hand  of  God  dispen 
sing  to  him  inestimable  blessings.  But  this  was  the 
greatest  gift  of  all — his  Mary  saved  from  the  horror  of 
the  second  death.  "  What  shall  I  render  unto  thee,  O 
God,  for  all  thy  mercies  unto  me,"  he  exclaimed,  as  his 
heart  bounded  with  rapture. 

There  is  a  peace  and  joy  which  the  world  knoweth 
not.  It  cannot  give  it,  neither  can  it  take  away.  That 
peace  is  found  in  believing  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

Presently  he  saw  a  little  company  wending  their 
way  down  the  descent  to  the  banks  of  the  stream.  He 
gazed  most  searchingly  into  their  midst.  Soon  his 
eager  eye  discovered  his  darling  Mary  led  by  the  pas 
tor  and  neighbor  Harrow.  His  Elizabeth  and  William 
Dormer  were  behind.  He  thought  he  saw  a  look  of 


THE   BAPTISM   OF   MARY.  301 

holy  joy  on  the  countenances  of  the  beloved  ones. 
His  heart  leaped  within  him.  He  strained  himself 
earnestly  forward.  How  his  soul  was  bursting  to  take 
his  Mary  in  his  arms  and  send  up  praise  and  thanks 
giving  to  Him  who  had  washed  her  white  in  his  own 
blood. 

But  the  prison  walls  bound  him  ;  lie  could  not  go ; 
and  Satan  came  tempting  him.  "  O  God,  my  God,  thy 
will  be  done,"  he  exclaimed,  as  thoughts  of  his  dreadful 
situation  came  rushing  through  his  soul.  "  I  will  not 
chafe  nor  murmur  under  thy  dispensation.  Give  me 
needed  strength." 

How  soon,  ah  how  soon,  was  his  praise  turned  to 
prayer.  But  a  few  moments  before,  his  soul,  filled 
with  ecstatic  bliss,  was  rehearsing  his  many  blessings. 
Now  lie  was  struggling  mightily  with  the  temptations 
of  Satan. 

"  The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil !"  What  a 
combination  against  the  .child  of  God.  Can  he  ever 
overcome  this  triple  power.  Yes.  Thanks  to  him 
who  givetli  us  the  victory.  He  is  able  to  conquer  all 
foes,  though  their  name  be  legion,  and  their  power 
satanic. 

The  disciples  silently  reached  the  river's  bank.  No 
song  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  marked  their  steps. 
Their  enemies  were  round  about  them,  and  they  dared 
not  betray  themselves  to  the  spite  of  evil  men. 

They  selected  a  spot  where  they  could  be  in  full 
view  of  the  jail  window.  They  could  not  see  the 
prisoner,  but  they  knew  his  look  was  upon  them. 
They  knelt,  and  the  man  of  God  prayed  for  the  divine 
approbation  on  what  they  were  about  to  do. 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  striking  scene.     A  few  down- 


302  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

trodden,  despised  followers  of  the  Lord  Jesus  kneeling 
beside  the  crystal  water  in  the  gray  of  the  morning 
dawn,  to  invoke  his  blessing  upon  an  act  typical  of  his 
burial  and  resurrection.  What  could  have  been  more 
sublime  and  more  touchingly  interesting  ?  Human 
eyes  were  not  spectators.  But  the  Lord  of  light,  and 
shining  angels,  bent  as  witnesses  above  the  hallowed 
spot,  and  in  heaven  was  a  record  made  of  this  act  of 
faith  and  obedience. 

The  prayer  was  ended.  Mary  arose,  and  round  her 
head  was  bound  a  stainless  white  handkerchief.  Her 
shoes  were  then  removed  ;  and,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
the  pastor,  Mr.  Giiford,  the  two  descended  into  the 
yielding  wave ;  and  there,  in  the  name  of  the  holy 
Trinity,  Mary  was  buried  with  her  Lord  and  Saviour 
in  baptism.  As  she  arose,  she  said  sweetly,  while  her 
face  wore  a  look  of  ineffable  loveliness,  "  Bless  the 
Lord,  oh  my  soul,  and  all  that  is  within  me  bless  his 
holy  name." 

The  prisoner  gazed  through  the  bars  of  the  narrow 
window  upon  the  solemn  scene.  His  face  was  stream 
ing  with  tears,  but  they  were  tears  of  holy  rapture. 
His  heart  was  leaping  with  emotions  of  gratitude  and 
love,  and  words  of  thanksgiving  and  praise  were  on 
his  tongue. 

The  sightless  eyes  flowing  with  tears,  were  turned 
to  heaven  as  the  two  moved  towards  the  bank,  ISTo 
word  was  uttered.  All  was  silent  as  the  grave,  save 
the  rippling  of  the  pearly  stream.  One  and  another 
clasped  her  hand  and  pressed  her  to  their  bosom. 

As  the  morning  sun,  rising  above  the  hill -tops, 
bursted  in  a  flood  of  glory  over  the  scene,  the  little 
company  ascended  the  bank. 


THE   BAPTISM   OF   MARY.  303 

There  was  one  heart  in  that  assembly  bowed  to  the 
earth  under  a  sense  of  sin. 

It  was  "William  Dormer. 

God,  through  his  holy  Spirit,  had  convicted  him,  and 
had  shown  him  the  "  exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin,"  and 
the  justice  of  his  righteous  law.  But  Christ  was  not 
formed  within  him  the  hope  of  glory — he  had  not  yet 
beheld  him  as  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life  ;  and  his 
soul  was  sending  up  the  cry  continually,  "  How  shall  a 
man  be  justified  with  God."  He  was  hoping  to  secure 
the  divine  favor  by  prayers  and  tears.  He  must  do 
something  to  recommend  him  to  the  Infinite  One. 

Ah,  fatal  mistake  !  Poor,  sin-sick  soul,  you  can  do 
nothing  but  flee  to  the  arms  of  Jesus.  There,  and 
there  alone,  is  hope  found. 

And  so  William,  at  last,  saw  the  way.  He  had 
come, — as  all  the  saved  before  him  had  done,  and  all 
who  shall  be  saved  till  the  end  of  the  world  shall  do, 
— to  the  arms  of  the  Saviour. 

A  few  days  after  he  was  translated  into  the  kingdom 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

And  when,  the  next  week,  the  little  band  again 
assembled  under  similar  circumstances  to  witness  the 
rites  of  baptism,  there  were  other  eyes  than  Bunyan's 
gazing  through  prison  grates. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

BUNYAN'S    PK.ISON    EMPLOYMENTS. 

BUNYAN  was  not  an  idler  in  prison.  Plis  great  active 
mind  must  have  something  to  do.  And,  beside  all 
this,  he  was  compelled  to  work  hard  for  the  scanty 
dole  on  which  a  wife  and  four  children  dragged  out 
their  sorrowful  existence.  With  his  pincers,  old  pieces 
of  brass,  and  tape,  he  managed  to  eke  out  a  miserable 
pittance  by  working  from  dawn  till  dark. 

"We  must  remember  that  during  the  first  two  years 
of  Bunyan's  imprisonment  he  was  permitted  by  the 
jailer  over  whom  he  soon  acquired  a  wonderful  influ 
ence,  to  visit  his  family  and  to  be  present  at  the 
meetings  of  his  brethren  whenever  he  desired  so  to  do ; 
and  during  this  time  we  have  no  account  of  his  having 
written  anything  at  all.  Composition  became  to  him 
a  recreation.  But  as  long  as  he  could  find  relief  from 
the  tedium  of  the  prison  in  visits  to  his  dear  family, 
and  in  sweet  communion  with  his  beloved  brethren,  he 
sought  nothing  beyond  this. 

How  our  hearts  are  touched  with  sympathy  and  sad 
ness  as  we  hear  the  jailer  say  to  him  after  his  weary 
walk  from  London,  "Mr.  Bunyan,  I  have  received  a 
command,  sir,  which  says  you  must  no  longer  look  out 
of  the  door."  "  God  knows,"  replied  the  astonished 
man,  u  it  is  a  slander  that  I  went  to  London  to  make 

(304) 


BUNYAN'S  PRISON  EMPLOYMENTS.  305 

or  plot  an  insurrection,  or  to  sow  diversions."  But  his 
innocence  was  of  no  avail.  The  sentence  must  be  en 
forced.  And  Bunyan  bade  farewell  to  family  and 
friends,  green  fields,  and  the  glorious  light  of  day. 

From  this  time  begins  his  literary  labor ;  and  from 
this  year,  1663,  until  the  time  of  his  release  early  in 
1673,  he  wrote  several  books,  among  them  his  inimita 
ble  Pilgrim's  Progress.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
rigor  of  his  sentence,  it  is  highly  probable  that  Bun 
yan  would  never  have  produced  that  work,  which,  next 
to  the  Bible,  has  been  the  solace  and  guide  of  the 
Christian  in  all  succeeding  ages. 

God  had  a  purpose  in  his  incarceration — a  purpose 
of  good  to  his  people.  And  his  people  should  praise 
him,  that  he  has  so  wonderfully  provided  for  their  spir 
itual  wants.  How  many  a  heart  has  been  led  unto 
peace  and  joy  by  the  reading  of  the  Pilgrim  ;  has  had  its 
faith  strengthened,  its  hopes  revived,  its  zeal  inspired, 
by  following  Christian  as  he  journeyed  on  towards  the 
Holy  City. 

After  a  diligent  search  of  old  records,  it  has  not  been 
found  that,  from  early  1663  until  1668,  Bunyan  was 
ever  permitted  to  go  beyond  the  prison  walls.  His 
employment  throughout  these  five  dreary  years  were, 
as  we  have  said,  the  study  of  the  Scriptures  only,  and 
tagging  shoe  laces.  It  has  been  found  from  the  records 
of  the  church-book  at  Bedford,  that  he  was,  during 
the  year  '68,  three  times  appointed  to  visit  disorderly 
church  members.  The  jailer  must  have  granted  him 
privileges  in  the  face  of  the  law  and  the  Conventicle 
Act.  His  name  appears  in  the  minutes  of  the  church 
meetings  in  1669,  1670,  1673 .  During  the  latter  year, 


306  MARY   BUNYAN. 

and  while  yet  in  prison,  he  was  called  to  take  the  care 
of  the  church  at  Bedford  and  ordained. 

The  record  in  the  old  church-book  reads  as  follows  : 
"  On  the  29th  of  August,  1671,  the  church  was  direc 
ted  to  seek  God  about  the  choice  of  Bro.  Bunyan  to 
the  office  of  elder  or  a  pastor,  to  which  office  he  was 
called  on  the  24th  of  the  tenth  month,  in  the  same 
year  when  he  received  of  the  elders  (or  pastors)  the 
right  hand  of  fellowship," 

When,  after  his  ordination,  he  was  permitted  through 
the  clemency  of  his  jailer  to  meet  with  his  flock,  and 
sometimes  with  the  brethren  of  other  churches,  there 
by  taxing  his  time  greatly  and  interrupting  to  some 
extent  his  literary  pursuits,  he  did  not  cease  to  write. 
It  had  become  to  him  a  pleasurable  and  profitable  em 
ployment.  It  was  the  only  way  he  could  reach  the 
popular  errors  of  the  day.  And  we  find  him,  in  a  few 
months  after  his  ordination,  sending  forth  from  the 
prison  that  bold  and  decisive  answer  to  Dr.  Fowler's 
work  on  the  "  Design  of  Christianity." 

The  precise  number  of  works  written  while  in  prison 
we  have  no  accurate  means  of  ascertaining.  We  know 
that  there  have  been  published  of  his  productions  sixty 
entire  works — one  for  each  year  of  his  life  ;  for  he  was 
just  sixty  years  old  when  he  died.  Two  of  the  sixty 
*'  Gospel  Truths  Opened,"  and  a  "  Vindication"  of  it 
were  published  the  one,  four  years,  and  the  other  three, 
before  his  imprisonment.  Several  works  were  written 
after  his  release  from  jail  in  1673,  for  he  continued  a 
close  student  up  to  the  time  of  his  death.  Sixteen  of 
his  works  were  published  after  his  death,  which  occur 
red  in  1688,  fifteen  years  after  his  pardon. 

Thus  we  see  that  this  good  and  great  man,  in  all  sit- 


BUNYAN'S  PKISON  EMPLOYMENTS.  307 

nations,  was  a  worker  in  the  vineyard  of  his  Lord. 
Nothing  deterred  him  from  his  great  purpose,  that  of 
winning  souls  to  Christ.  His  pulpit  efforts  were  sig 
nally  blessed.  His  itineracies  through  the  adjoining 
counties  of  Cambridge,  Northampton,  Buckingham, 
Huntingdon,  and  Hetford  were  frequent,  and  greatly 
blessed  in  the  spread  of  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord  Je 
sus  Christ.  His  maxim  was,  "  If  I  can  pluck  souls 
from  the  clutches  of  the  devil,  I  care  not  where  they 
go  to  be  built  up  in  their  holy  faith."  Of  his  trials 
and  persecutions  after  he  came  out  of  jail,  we  shall 
speak  in  a  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

BANYAN'S  RELEAS  E — E  MPLOYMENT. 

TWELVE  years  of  imprisonment !  Twelve  long  weary 
years  shut  up  in  a  town  jail !  What  thoughts  of 
misery,  of  loneliness,  and  despair  does  it  suggest  ? 
And  all  this  deprivation,  all  this  suffering,  because 
Bunyan  would  preach  the  gospel  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  This  was  his  offense  ! — no  other.  What  a 
comment  on  the  spirit  of  that  age !  What  a  proof  of 
the  power  of  the  Prince  of  the  air  working  in  the 
children  of  disobedience  ? 

But  the  man  of  God  had  been  patient  in  afflictions 
through  the  grace  of  God,  which  strengthened  him, 
and  while  his  body  was  pent  up  in  chill,  noisome 
walls,  his  soul  feasted  on  the  ravishing  glories  of  the 
unseen  world.  The  candle  of  the  Lord  shone  round 
about,  and  made  glorious  the  thick  darkness. 

Day  and  night  he  had  labored — for  food  for  his  wife 
and  little  ones — and,  above  all,  to  show  himself  an 
approved  workman  to  God — one  that  need  not  be 
ashamed.  The  morning  dawn  found  him  tugging  with 

O  CPO          *~J 

his  pincers  to  tag  stay  laces, — the  midnight .  hour 
beheld  him  with  his  Bible  and  his  pen,  studying  and 
writing  that  he  might  give  spiritual  food  to  the 
children  of  God,  and  warn  sinners  to  flee  from  the 

wrath  to  come.     He  took  great  delight,  too,  in  corres- 
T3081 


BTTNYAN'S  RELEASE — EMPLOYMENT.  309 

ponding  with  his  brethren  who  were  in  like  sufferings 
with  himself;  and  also  to  his  "  spiritual  children"  as  he 
called  those  of  his  own  immediate  congregation,  and 
all  those  who  had  been  bora  to  God  through  his 
instrumentality. 

One  morning  as  he  sat  by  his  narrow  window, 
thinking  over  the  trials  of  his  brethren  and  what  the 
little  flock  at  Bedford  were  enduring  for  Christ's  sake, 
it  came  into  his  head  to  write  them  a  letter  of  conso 
lation.  And  thus  he  speaks  : 

"  Children,  grace  be  with  you.  Amen.  I  being 
taken  from  you  in  presence,  and  so  tied  up  that  I 
cannot  perform  that  duty,  that  from  God  doth  lie  upon 
me  to  you  and  for  your  further  edifying  and  building 
up  in  faith  and  holiness,  yet  that  you  may  see  that  my 
soul  hath  fatherly  care  and  desire  after  your  spiritual 
and  everlasting  welfare,  I  now  once  again  as  before 
from  the  top  of  Shinar  and  Hermon  ;  so  now  from  the 
Lion's  den,  and  from  the  mountain  of  the  Leopard,  do 
look  yet  after  ye  all,  greatly  longing  to  see  your  safe 

arrival  in  the  deserved  haven I  have  sent  you 

here  enclosed  [in  his  life]  a  drop  of  that  honey  that  I 
have  taken  out  of  the  carcase  of  a  lion.  I  have  eaten 
thereof  myself,  and  am  much  refreshed  thereby." 

Then,  after  calling  to  their  minds  what  God  Imd 
done  for  them  in  times  past,  and  bringing  before  them 
in  strong  yet  tender  words  their  present  afflictions,  he 
appealed  to  them  to  trust  in  God,  because  he  himself 
had  called  them  out  of  the  world ;  and  had  manifested 
himself  to  them  as  he  had  not  done  to  the  world.  He 
continues : 

"  Have  you  never  a  hill  Mizar  to  remember  ?  Have 
you  forgot  the  close,  the  milk-house,  the  stable,  the 


310  MARY   BUNYAN. 

barn,  and  the  like,  where  God  did  visit  your  souls  ? 
Remember  also  the  word,  the  word  I  say,  upon  which 
the  Lord  hath  caused  you  to  hope.  If  you  have  sinned 
against  light,  if  you  are  tempted  to  blaspheme,  if  you 
are  drowned  in  despair,  if  you  think  God  fights  against 
you,  or  if  heaven  is  hid  from  your  eyes,  remember  it 
was  thus  with  your  fathers,  '  but  out  of  them  all  the 

Lord  delivered  me.' 

******  * 

"  My  dear  children,  the  milk  and  honey  are  beyond 
this  wilderness.  God  be  merciful  to  you,  and  grant 
that  you  be  not  slothful  to  go  in  to  possess  the  land. 

"  JOHN  BUNYAN." 

Release  came  at  length.  The  prison  doors  flew 
open,  and  the  narrow,  dark  cell  was  exchanged  for  the 
sweet  cottage  home,  and  its  loneliness  and  dreariness 
for  the  blissful  society  of  a  loved  and  loving  wife,  and 
the  sweet  prattle  of  darling  children.  He  was  once 
again  permitted  to  mingle  with  his  brethren,  and 
indeed  to  go  in  and  out  before  them  as  an  under-shep- 
herd,  having  been  ordained,  as  we  have  before  said, 
in  1771,  at  least  one  year  before  his  final  release. 
This  was  a  source  of  great  joy  and  thanksgiving  to 
him.  He  loved  to  preach  Christ  crucified,  and  point 
sinners  the  way  to  eternal  life. 

As  soon  as  he  came  out  from  prison  he  immediately 
entered  on  his  duties  as  pastor  to  the  flock  over  which 
he  had  been  called  to  preside.  Beside  this,  he  itiner 
ated  extensively  in  all  the  adjoining  counties.  It  was 
his  meat  and  his  drink  to  spread  the  news  of  the 
glorious  gospel  of  the  Son  of  God.  It  was  his  custom 
to  make  an  annual  visit  to  London  for  the  purpose  of 


BT7NYAN8   RELEASE — EMPLOYMENT.  311 

preaching  and  setting  in  order  the  things  of  the  king 
dom  of  his  Master. 

His  fame  everywhere  preceded  him.  "  If  a  day's 
notice  were  given,"  says  Southey,  "  that  he  was  going 
to  preach  in  London,  the  meeting  house  at  Southwark 
at  which  he  generally  preached  would  not  contain 
half  the  people."  And  his  friend  Charles  Doe,  in  his 
Circular  says :  "  I  have  seen,  by.  my  computation, 
about  twelve  hundred  persons  to  hear  him  at  a  morn 
ing  lecture  on  a  working  day  in  dark  winter  time.  I 
also  computed  that  about  three  thousand  came  to  hear 
him  to  a  town's  end  meeting  house,  so  that  half  were 
fain  to  go  back  again  for  want  of  room ;  and  then 
himself  was  fain,  at  a  back  door,  to  be  pulled  almost 
over  people  to  get  up  stairs  to  the  pulpit." 

But  while  thus  engaged  in  pastoral  duties,  and  in 
extensive  and  useful  itineracies,  he  was  not  unmindful 
of  his  pen,  but  devoted  all  his  leisure  time  to  study  and 
to  writing.  He  was  not  exempt  from  the  enmity  of 
those  who  hated  him  for  his  doctrine's  sake,  even  after 
he  came  forth  from  the  prison.  He  sometimes  made 
narrow  escapes  from  their  fell  pursuits .  But  as  Doe 
beautifully  says :  "  It  pleased  the  Lord  to  preserve 
him  out  of  the  hands  of  his  enemies  in  the  severe 
persecution  at  the  latter  end  of  the  reign  of  King 
Charles,  though  they  often  searched  and  laid  wait  for 
him,  and  sometimes  narrowly  missed  him."  This 
explains  it  all — unfolds  the  mysteries  of  all  his  hair- ' 
breadth  escapes.  "  The  Lord  delivered  him  out  of  the 
hands  of  his  enemies." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE      TALE     OF      LOVE. 

THE  two  were  walking  home  together  from  Bedford, 
— William  Dormer  and  the  Blind  Girl.  She  was  now 
no  longer  the  frail  child.  Womanhood  had  thrown 
around  her  maturer  charms  and  more  finished  graces. 
It  had  been  twelve  years  since  William  Dormer  for  the 
first  time  gazed  on  that  sweet  pensive  face  and  delicate 
form.  The  face  was  changed,  and  the  form  had 
assumed  womanly  proportions,  but  the  one  had  lost 
nothing  of  its  charming  loveliness,  its  depth  and  purity 
of  thought  and  expression,  nor  the  other  the  soft 
sweet  grace  which  bespoke  the  sensitive  nature 
within. 

William  was  up  on  a  visit  to  his  father,  and  as  \vas 
his  custom  he  made  the  Elstow  cottage  his  home.  He 

o 

had  accompanied  the  family  to  Bedford  church- 
meeting.  Bunyan  was  at  liberty  now,  and  as  the 
loved  pastor  of  the  little  flock  at  Bedford,  he  minis 
tered  unto  them  in  holy  things.  The  dark  shadow 
which  for  twelve  long  years  had  brooded  over  that 
desolate  home  wras  now  removed,  and  the  sunshine  of 
a  father's  love  and  a  father's  presence  dwelt  in  glad 
beauty  over  that  peaceful  threshold. 

It  was  a  calm  autumn  evening,  the  one  of  which  we 
speak.  The  mellow  light  of  the  declining  sun  fell  in 

(312) 


THE   TALE   OF   LOVE.  313 

streams  of  heavenly  glory  along  the  highway  and 
across  the  meadows  through  which  their  homeward 
pathway  lay.  Zephyrs,  soft  as  the  fannings  of  angels' 
wings,  dallied  with  the  green  sward,  and  lifted  the 
hair  from  the  fair  brow  of  the  maiden. 

William  led  her  gently  by  the  hand,  guiding  her 
footsteps  from  all  danger,  and  looking  on  her  from  his 
large  beaming  eyes  with  an  earnest,  tender  gaze.  The 
blood  would  mount  to  his  manly  brow,  and  his  noble 
heart  beat  wildly  as  the  strains  of  her  sweet  voice  fell 
on  his  ear.  They  had  lingered  somewhat  behind  the 
father  and  mother  as  they  turned  from  the  highway 
into  the  meadow. 

William  had  been  speaking  to  her  of  the  sufferings 
of"  his  father  in  prison,  and  the  mysterious  providence 
that  kept  him  there  when  others  had  been  released. 
He  spoke  of  the  sorrows  that  dear  old  father  had 
undergone  before  the  hand  of  the  law  had  laid  its  iron 
grip  upon  him.  Two  sons  had  been  torn  from  his 
bosom  to  pour  out  their  blood  on  the  battle-field. 
Another,  by  a  strange  and  serious  accident,  had  been 
deprived  of  his  mind  at  the  age  of  twelve,  and, 
imbecile,  had  lingered  on  for  years,  until  at  last  death 
came  to  relieve  him  of  his  suffering.  A  daughter  fair 
and  beautiful,  and  the  idol  of  the  father's  heart,  had 
been  stricken  down  by  consumption  in  the  full  open 
ing  of  womanhood. 

"  I  remember  her  well,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  my  sister 
Jane.  She  was  much  like  you,  Mary,  gentle,  confiding, 
true.  We  all  loved  her,  she  was  so  sweet  and  kind." 

"  She  was  not  blind,  was  she,  William  ?"  asked  the 
girl  timidly,  yet  anxiously.  She  thought,  perhaps,  this 

Bad  misfortune  had  served  to  link  the  brother's  heart 

14 


314  MAKY   BU2STYAN. 

the  more  closely  to  his  lost  sister  ;  ana  if  he  had  loved 
her  the  more  fondly  for  this,  why — ah  !  why  not  her? 

"  'No,  Mary,  she  was  not  blind ;  her  eyes  were  the 
color  of  yours." 

"  But  she  could  see,  William,  and  I  cannot,"  inter 
rupted  the  blind  girl,  sadly. 

William  pressed  the  hand  he  held  in  his  more 
tightly,  and  the  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  as  the  tremu 
lous  words,  so  full  of  hopelessness,  fell  on  his  ears  and 
pierced  his  heart 

"If  she  had  been  blind  like  you,  I  should  have  loved 
her  the  more  fondly.  She  would  have  been  dearer  to 
me  from  her  very  helplessness." 

Mary  started  as  he  spoke  thus.  A  new  thought 
rushed  through  her  mind.  Could  anybody  be  more 
lovely  because  they  were  blind  ?  Surely  William  did 
not  mean  this.  Pie  must  have  mistaken  her  words. 
But  how  could  she  be  deceived  ?  Did  he  not  say, 
"  She  would  have  been  dearer  to  me  from  her  very 
helplessness  ?"  Strange  emotions,  pleasurable  in  their 
excitement,  filled  her  bosom.  She  might  be  loved  by 
him,  blind  as  she  was.  The  thought  sent  the  blood  to 
her  very  temples,  and  lighted  up  with  a  bright  hopeful 
expression,  the  calm  face.  To  be  loved  for  her  blind 
ness,  and  that,  too,  by  William  Dormer !  It  was  a 
happiness  too  great. 

Mary  did  not  speak.  She  could  not  trust  her  falter 
ing  lips  with  words.  Her  hand  trembled  in  William's. 
He  perceived  it,  and  instantly  divined  the  cause. 

"  Do  you  think,  Mary,"  he  asked,  "  that  no  one  can 
love  the  blind  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  they  can,  but  I  cannot  tell  why 
they  should  love  them  more  because  they  are  blind. 


THE   TALE   OF  LOTE.  315 

It  is  such  a  sore  affliction,  William.  But  did  you  not 
say  you  could  have  loved  your  sister  far  better  if  she 
had  been  blind  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  I  did.  And  I  must  tell  you  that  this  is 
one  reason  why  I  have  loved  you  so  dearly.  Your 
very  blindness  has  won  my  heart,  and  I  feel  that 
through  life  it  will  be  my  greatest  joy  to  be  eyes  to  you 
— to  guide  and  protect  you." 

The  maiden  made  no  reply. 

"  I  have  loved  you,  Mary,  since  first  we  met — since 
first  I  saw  you  in  the  door  of  your  own  cottage  home. 
You  were  a  child  then,  and  I  a  youth.  I  have  passed 
through  many  scenes  since,  Mary,  but  never  has  your 
image  been  absent  from  my  mind.  I  have  cherished  it 
day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  until  it  has  become  a 
part  of  myself.  Long  ago  would  I  have  asked  for  a 
return  of  affection,  but  I  dared  not  under  the  circum 
stances.  My  father  in  prison,  and  my  mother  feeble 
and  dependent  without  any  protector  but  me,  and  I 
poor,  very  poor,  Mary.  I  could  not  tempt  God.  I 
could  not  make  your  situation  worse  than  it  was.  But 
God  in  his  wisdom  has  seen  fit  to  take  my  kind  mother 
from  me,  Mary.  She  has  gone,  and  I  am  left  alone. 
Unless  you  love  me,  there  is  no  one  else  in  the  wide 
world  to  whom  I  can  look  for  sympathy  and  affection. 
Tell  me,  Mary,  will  you  be  to  me  more  than  mother 
and  sister — more  than  all  the  world  beside  ?  I  have 
nothing  to  offer  you  but  a  warm  loving  heart  ;  but  by 
the  help  of  God  I  will  be  to  you  a  kind  protector,  a 
true  friend,  as  long  as  life  shall  last.  Tell  me,  Mary, 
will  you  trust  yourself  to  my  guidance  and  protection  ?" 

The  fountain  sealed  up  in  her  bosom  for  long  years 
was  suddenly  opened.  She  had  never  dared  to  dwell 


316  MART   BUNYAN. 

on  the  probable  realization  of  her  fondly  cherished 
hopes.  But  now  that  bliss  was  hers.  She  was  loved 
by  him  whom  she  had  from  her  childhood  adored  with 
all  the  earnest,  trusting  love  of  her  warm,  gushing 
heart.  She  could  scarcely  realize  that  it  was  true.  It 
seemed  to  her  like  one  of  those  beautiful  dreams  that 
had  come  to  her  pillow  in  the  deep  night  watches. 
And  like  those  airy  visions  she  felt  it  must  pass  away. 

"  You  answer  me  not,  Mary.  Do  you  refuse  my 
proffered  love  ?" 

William  drew  aside  her  hood  to  look  at  her.'  Her 
face  was  bathed  in  tears.  She  turned  her  darkened 
eyes  to  his.  lie  needed  not  words  to  tell  him  he  was 
loved.  He  read  in  every  lineament  of  that  burning  face ; 
in  the  radiant  beamings  of  those  sealed  eyes,  and  the 
tremulousness  of  the  parted  lips.  They  were  all  telling, 
in  their  silent  eloquence,  a  tale  of  true,  abiding  affection. 

He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  her  throb 
bing  brow. 

Mary  was  happy.  The  world  seemed  to  her  full  of 
life  and  beauty.  There  was  but  one  sad  thought  to 
mar  her  blissful  ecstacy.  She  could  never  look  upon 
him  she  loved.  It  was  but  a  passing  shadow.  "Why 
should  she  desire  to  see  him  with  her  natural  vision, 
when  every  feature,  every  light  and  shade  of  that  hand 
some  face  was  imprinted  on  her  soul  ? 

Dream  on,  poor  girl,  amid  the  ravishing  joy  of  thy 
new-found  happiness.  Dream  on  ;  we  would  not  wake 
thee.  Thou'lt  know  the  reality,  alas  !  too  soon.  'Twere 
cruel,  aye,  worse  than  cruel,  to  tell  thee  that  earth's  joys 
are  as  the  morning  dew,  the  summer  cloud,  the  frail, 
sweet  flower.  Dream  on,  dear  girl.  We  are  all  dream 
ers.  And  well  for  us  it  is  so. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE     SEPARATION. 

"Tis  a  cold,  cold  bleak  winter  night,  in  December, 
1674.  The  snow  is  driving  fast  across  the  barren  field 
and  meadow.  And  the  fierce  blasts  of  the  northern 
wind,  as  it  comes  rushing  on  in  its  fierce  fury,  almost 
prostrate  the  traveler  as,  shivering  from  its  keen  breath 
he  gathers  more  closely  around  him  his  heavy  cloak. 
The  heavens  are  covered  with  dark,  leaden  clouds,  which 
shut  in  every  ray  of  moon  or  star.  God  help  the  poor 
mariner  on  the  storm-tossed  ocean,  and  the  poor  trav 
eler  on  the  wind-swept  plain. 

In  the  little  cottage  at  Elstow,  the  family  are  gath 
ered  round  the  blazing  hearth.  Peace  and  comfort 
now  reign  within.  For  the  father  is  there. 

The  day's  labor  is  over.  The  simple  evening  repast 
has  been  served.  ':  Bunyan's  Elizabeth"  is  sitting  qui 
etly  by  the  fire  with  her  sewing.  A  smile  of  deep  hap 
piness  overspreads  her  motherly  countenance.  Mary 
is  sitting,  beside  the  father,  with  her  face  turned  to  his 
and  lighted  up  with  a  radiant  beauty  which  tells  of  the 
deep  wells  of  joy  within.  Sarah  is  now  no  longer  a 
child.  She  is  tall,  and  her  rounded  proportions  and 
laughing  face  show  health  and  vivacity,  rather  than 
grace  and  sensitiveness.  She  is  a  complete  contrast  to 

[317] 


318  MAKY    BUN VAN. 

the  blind  sister  by  her  side,  and  yet  they  are  both  lovely 
girls.  The  younger  children,  John  and  Elizabeth,  tired 
with  the  day's  sports,  lie  sweetly  sleeping  on  their  lit 
tle  cot  beneath  the  window — the  same  spot  where 
years  before,  when  Mary,  but  yet  a  child,  had  dreamed 
that  dream  of  William  Dormer  and  the  beautiful  land. 
Thomas  and  Joseph  are  now  large  enough  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  and  as  they  depend  on  their  own  exer 
tions  for  support,  they  have  found  themselves  homes 
elsewhere. 

Bunyan  ig  telling  his  Elizabeth  and  the  daughters,  of 
his  late  itineracy  into  Buckingham,  He  speaks  with 
all  the  fervor  of  his  soul,  for  that  soul  is  filled  with 
gratitude  to  God  for  his  many  mercies  and  rich  bless 
ings.  How  the  females  hang  on  his  words  !  The  sew 
ing  rests  on  the  lap,  while  the  wife's  eyes  are  fixed  on 
her  husband's  beaming  face.  Mary's  hand  is  on  her 
father's  knee  (she  often  rests  thus),  while  her  face  is 
turned  up  to  him  that  she  may  catch  every  intonation 
of  that  rich,  full  voice,  Sarah's  arm  is  on  Mary's 
shoulder,  and  her  face  close  to  hers,  while  her  large 
dark  eyes  andflushing  cheek  where  dimples  nestle,  show 
that  she,  too,  is  all  alive  to  her  father's  words  and  sen 
timents.  Sarah,  too,  is  a  child  of  God. 

The  fierce  wind  raves  and  moans  without.  And  as 
its  loud,  long  wail  sounds  round  the  peaceful  cottage, 
the  inmates  shudder.  Thank  God  they  are  all  safely 
housed.  But  they  remember  that  many  a  fellow  crea 
ture  may  even  now  be  perishing  for  want  of  shelter. 

A  rap  is  heard  at  the  door. 

The  father  rises  to  open  it. 

The  stranger  steps  in. 

It  is  William  Dormer. 


THE    SEPARATION.  319 

His  expression  is  one  of  wild,  intense  excitement. 
His  voice  meets  the  ear  of  Mary.  She  starts,  and  tears 
suddenly  fall.  She  knows  that  voice,  but  it  is  dry  and 
husky,  as  if  fear  and  alarm  had  frozen  up  the  life 
blood. 

"  I  cannot  stay,"  says  he.  "  I  came  to  bid  yon  all 
adieu ;  they  are  even  now  on  my  track,  and  if  they 
overtake  me  I  know  not  what  will  be  my  end.  I  have 
no  time  to  explain.  But  when  I  reach  a  place  of  ref 
uge,  I  will  send  you  word  all  about  it." 

The  family  stood  aghast.  Mary  sunk  to  a  chair. 
Bunyan  with  all  his  usual  courage  and  self-possession, 
was  speechless. 

"  I  have  done  nothing  wrong.  Only  the  vindictive 
vengeance  of  enemies." 

He  moved  to  Mary's  side,  and  throwing  his  arms 
around  her,  leaned  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  spoke 
hasty  words  of  comfort  and  promise  of  return.  The 
poor  girl  was  almost  in  the  unconsciousness  of  agony. 
She  knew  something  dreadful  had  occurred,  but  could 
not  tell  what.  She  did  not  speak,  for  she  had  no  power 
to  do  so.  She  remained  as  motionless  as  though  life 
had  forsaken  that  bowed  form. 

"  You  must  not  grieve  thus,  Mary ;  you  shall  hear 
all  in  a  fortnight.  God  willing.  Trust  in  him,  my  dear 
girl.  It  will  all  be  well."  He  smoothed  back  the  hair 
from  the  marble  temples,  and  gazed  as  though  he  would 
look  out  his  soul  on  those  chiseled  features,  now  so  still 
and  motionless. 

"  Church  matters  ?"  said  Bunyan* 

"  Yes,"  was  the  hasty  reply. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Mary,  before  I  go.  I  must  haste,  or 
I  am  gone."  He  stooped  again  and  kissed  her.  The 


320  MARY   BUNYAN. 

kiss  seemed  to  wake  her  to  life.  She  raised  her  head 
and  said,  "  William,  William.  My  God,  what  is  all 
this  ?" 

"  William  will  explain,  in  good  time,  my  dear  child," 
and  the  father  supported  her  in  his  arms. 

But  now  he  must  be  off.  His  cruel  enemies  are  at 
his  heels,  and  if  he  stays  talking  to  us  they  may  over 
take  him.  "  It  is  all  right,  my  Mary.  Do  not  fear,  but 
trust  in  God." 

William  bade  them  all  farewell.  Then  pressing 
Mary  long  and  tenderly  to  his  bosom,  and  kissing  her 
again  and  again,  lie  rushed  through  the  door. 

The  loud  wailing  wind  drowned  the  noise  of  his 
footsteps  in  the  crisp  snow. 

The  Angel  of  sorrow  again  overshadowed  the  little 
cottage  at  Elstow,  with  his  heavy  wing. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

SUS  PEN  SE . 

THE  beautiful  summer  of  1675,  full  of  life,  and  love, 
and  gladness,  was  smiling  over  the  earth.  Traces  of 
the  three  great  calamities,  the  "  Plague,"  the  "  Great 
Fire,"  and  the  "  Dutch  Invasion,"  which  had  spread 
much  consternation  and  suffering  throughout  the 
metropolis,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  realm,  had  measure- 
ably  passed  away ;  and  prosperity,  as  great  as  could 
attend  a  people  ruled  by  an  effeminate  and  dissolute 
sovereign  and  an  intriguing  and  cruel  parliament, 
marked  the  nation,  and  gave  to  it  some  little  promise 
of  future  good. 

The  King  and  his  courtiers  had  retired  to  Hampton 
Court  to  escape  the  noise  and  heat  of  the  city.  The 
morals  of  Charles  and  the  nobility  were  by  no  means 
improved.  Calamities,  the  sudden  and  signal  visita 
tions  of  heaven,  had  had  no  effect  in  bringing  these 
slaves  of  pleasure  to  their  sober  reason  and  the  con 
scientious  discharge  of  duty.  Dissipation,  profligacy, 
in  a  word,  vices  of  the  darkest  dye  held  dominant  sway 
over  the  minds  and  hearts  of  all  in  authority.  They 
were  enslaved,  fettered  ;  the  Prince  of  the  power  of 
the  air  led  them  captives  at  his  will.  They  were 
heaping  np  a  measure  of  wrath  and  indignation,  not 

[3211 


322  MARY    BUNYAN. 

only  for  themselves  individually,  but  for  the  nation  at 
large. 

"  The  kings  of  the  earth  set  themselves,  and  the 
rulers  take  counsel  against  the  Lord,  and  against  his 
anointed."  "  He  that  sitteth  in  the  heavens  shall 
laugh  ;  the  Lord  shall  have  them  in  derision." 

The  Lady  Castlemain,  now  Dutchess  of  Cleaveland, 
was  still  the  reigning  beauty  of  the  court ;  and  the 
imperious  will  of  this  unprincipled  woman  was  law  to 
the  weak-minded  monarch.  She  dictated — he  obeyed 
with  a  servileness  disgusting  even  to  those  as  sunken 
in  voluptuousness  and  vice  as  himself.  When  her 
demands  exceeded  even  his  magnificent  bounds,  as 
they  sometimes  did  (for  she  was  rapacious  in  her 
desires,)  and  the  king,  exasperated  by  her  selfishness 
and  tyranny,  openly  offended  her  and  forbade  her  the 
court,  her  fits  of  violent  rage  and  vulgar  denunciation 
were  the  astonishment  and  dread  of  all  who  were 
witnesses  of  her  frenzies.  She  had  no  parallel,  even 
in  that  reign  of  unbridled  passion  and  unlicensed  vitu 
peration.  And  she  never  failed  to  accomplish  her 
aim.  The  cowardly  monarch  could  not  withstand  her 
arrogant  will,  and  was  sure,  in  the  end,  to  come  peni 
tent  and  supplicating  to  her  feet.  She  knew  his  weak 
ness  well,  and  she  availed  herself  of  it  to  carry  her 
ends,  in  affairs  of  State  as  well  as  of  Court.  A  groan 
ing  country  fully  attested  the  dire  misrule  of  a  prince 
given  to  women,  wit,  and  wine,  rather  than  to  wisdom, 
judgment,  and  righteousness. 

But  times  were  somewhat  changed  for  the  better, 
for  the  people  of  God,  since  the  day  that  John  Bun- 
yan  was  condemned  without  a  hearing  to  a  prisoner's 
cell,  and  there  held  by  cruel  injustice.  The  laws  were 


SUSPENSE.  323 

rigorous  still,  but  the  creatures  of  the  government 
were  not  so  eager  to  hunt  out  and  drag  to  condemna 
tion  those  whose  only  sin  was  claiming  the  right  to 
worship  God  after  the  teachings  of  his  holy  word.  And 
the  tinker  preacher,  who  was  seized  upon,  dragged 
from  the  bosom  of  his  family  to  a  bar  of  reckless  hate, 
and  from  thence  to  a  dungeon,  merely  because  "  he 
would  preach  Jesus,"  was  now  permitted  to  meet  with 
his  flock  at  Bedford,  and  in  peace  and  comparative  se 
curity  break  unto  them  the  bread  of  life.  The  blood 
hounds  of  the  law  had  become  sated,  and  the  children 
of  God  were  thereby  exempt,  for  a  time,  from  their 
fearful  pursuit. 

It  was  a  calm,  lovely  day,  in  the  summer  of  1675. 
Bunyan  had  been  with  his  people,  setting  in  order  the 
things  that  pertain  to  the  house  of  God  and  expound 
ing  to  them  the  scriptures.  His  faithful  Eliazbeth,  and 
Mary,  and  Sarah,  had  acompanied  him.  As  they 
passed  the  old  jail  on  their  return  home,  what  visions 
of  long,  dull  days  of  heart-aching  dread,  and  dark 
forebodings,  and  of  weary  night-watchings,  when  his 
soul  was  breaking  with  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  the 
distresses  of  his  suffering  family,  and  of  the  fearful 
temptations  of  Satan,  who  would  have  led  him  to  des 
pair,  flashed  before  the  father's  mind.  There  he  had 
known  agony — intense  agony ;  and  the  remembrance 
of  it  was  never  to  be  forgotten. 

But  in  all  the  evil  there  was  a  good.  His  trials  had 
taught  him  to  feel  another's  woe.  They  had  prepared 
him  to  teach  more  fully  the  doctrines  of  the  divine 
word.  He  had  experienced,  and,  therefore,  he  could 
speak  with  confidence  of  the  grace  of  God  made  man 
ifestly  sufficient  in  the  darkest  hour.  God  was  a  Father 


324r  MARY   BUNYAN. 

of  infinite  love  and  tenderness  ;  this  his  soul  knew  full 
well.  And  there  was  no  sorrow,  no  temptation  among 
his  people  that  he  could  not  find  a  balm  for,  and  a 
power  against,  in  the  blessed  scriptures. 

He  had  now  much  to  be  thankful  for,  much  for 
which  to  take  courage  and  press  on.  The  black  night 
was  passed,  and  to  it  had  succeeded  a  bright  day  of 
joy  and  peace.  But  this  day  was  not  without  its  clouds. 
A  shadow  even  now  rested  on  its  breast,  and  its  darken 
ing  hues  portended  to  his  paternal  love  a  future  of 
blight  and  sadness. 

Since  that  fearful  night,  when  William  Dormer  had 
so  suddenly  entered  the  little  cottage  at  Elstow  to  break 
to  its  fireside  group  the  dreadful  news  of  his  hasty  de 
parture  to  the  Continent,  Mary,  the  loved  of  her  father's 
heart,  had  been  drooping  even  as  the  lily,  in  whose 
stalk  is  lodged  the  fatal  worm.  Her  cheerfulness  had 
settled  into  a  touching  sadness,  and  the  sweet  cheer 
ing  smile  that  love  had  given  to  that  exquisite  face, 
was  now  a  faint,  unfrequent  smile  of  hopelessness  and 
gloom.  Mary  was  changed,  aye,  so  changed.  Parents 
and  friends  observed  it,  and  strangers  looked  on  that 
pensive  face  and  said,  "  Ah,  poor  child,  she  is  blind, 
and  she  feels  it  deeply  !"  Ah,  no  !  It  was  not,  that 
the  sunshine  of  heaven  was  sealed  out  from  her  vision. 
The  far  more  glorious  sun  of  love  was  darkened  in  her 
heart  ;  the  sun,  which,  in  its  rising,  had  promised  one 
eternal  day  of  bliss. 

Eight  months  have  passed  since  that  fearful  Decem 
ber  night,  and  no  news  has  yet  been  received  from  the 
absent  one.  Postal  arrangements  were  not,  two  hun 
dred  years  ago,  such  as  they  are  now.  Neither  was  ed 
ucation  as  generally  diffused  as  it  is  in  this  nineteenth 


SUSPENSE.  325 

century.     William  Dormer  could  not  write   his   own 
name  when  he  left  the  shores  of  England  for  Holland. 

The  father  saw  the  daughter,  sinking,  day  by  day 
under  her  weight  of  sorrow  and  disappointment.  He 
endeavored  to  buoy  her  np  with  hope.  But  love  is 
tenacious  of  its  own  powers  of  discrimination  and  fore 
sight.  Mary  had  entire  confidence  in  her  father's 
judgment  in  all  other  matters  save  this.  In  everything 
else  he  was  her  strength.  He  pointed  out  to  her  the 
promises  of  God  (he  would  not  mock  her  with  a  calcu 
lation  of  human  probabilities,)  and  plead  with  her  to 
rely  on  his  invaluable  word.  And  by  faith  she  did 
lay  hold,  to  a  great  extent,  on  the  rich  and  abundant 
consolations  of  the  gospel,  but  her's  was  weak  human 
nature,  and  she  faltered,  even  in  her  most  earnest 
endeavors,  and  oftentimes  she  fell,  faint  and  weary. 
For  weeks  she  had  hoped,  each  day,  to  hear  from  him 
she  loved.  But  the  winter  had  passed,  and  spring- 
flowers  budded  and  bloomed,  and  birds  sung  sweetly 
to  their  mates  'neath  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  yet  no 
tidings  from  him  who  was  far  away.  Then  hope  grew 
faint,  and  each  passing  hour  served  to  make  it'  fainter 
still,  till  at  last,  when  the  blushing  spring  had  sunk 
into  the  lap  of  summer,  hope  had  become  dread 
anxie>y. 

Mary  essayed  to  hide  her  corroding  grief,  not  that 
she  would  blush  to  make  it  known,  but  she  would  save 
her  father  the  slightest  pain.  But  a  father's  love  was 
too  detective  for  her  most  sedulous  care ;  aye,  long 
before  she  would  admit  to  her  own  bosom  the  fearful 
truth,  he  had  read  it  all  too  plainly  in  the  clouded 
brow  and  sweet  sad  face,  and  in  the  languid  step  and 
smothered  sigh.  He  knew,  and  could  appreciate  the 


326  MARY   BTJNYAN 

intensity  of  her  distress,  for  he  was  thoroughly  familiar 
with  the  painful  depths  of  her  sensitive  nature. 

Bunyan  felt  that  his  poor  blind  Mary  loved  as  but 
few  beings  ever  love.  The  strength  and  intensity  of 
her  affection,  which  made  her  a  new  being  in  requited 
love,  was  now  a  consuming  h're,  scorching  with  worse 
than  lava  stream  every  hope,  every  enjoyment. 

As  Mary  walked  with  her  parents  home  from  church, 
she  was  pensive  and  silent.  As  she  crossed  the  old 
bridge,  thoughts  of  him  on  whose  arm  she  had  so  often 
leaned  for  safety  as  she  trod  its  narrow  footpath,  came 
rushing  over  her  soul  with  fearful  power.  He  was 
associated  in  her  mind  with  every  step  of  the  way 
from  Bedford  to  Els  tow.  Often  had  they  trod  the  road 
and  the  smiling  meadows  together  when  her  bosom 
glowed  with  ecstatic  joy. 

The  little  company  of  pedestrians  turned  from  the 
highway  into  the  meadow — the  meadow  where  William 
had  first  made  known  his  love  to  Mary,  in  words,  and 
where  she  had  looked,  even  from  those  sightless  eyes, 
a  full,  free  answer  to  his  burning  avowal.  How 
gloriously  beautiful  then — how  desolate  and  meaning 
less  now. 

In  one  short  year  Mary  had  lived  a  lifetime  of  sor 
row.  How  many  even  in  fewer  months,  can  tell  the 
same  sad  tale. 


CHAPTER     XXX. 

THE      V I  S  I  T N  EWS      FROM      WILLIAM      DORMEB.. 

As  the  family  of  Bunyan  sat  at  the  twilight  hour 
at  the  front  door  of  their  cottage  home  on  the  evening 
of  the  church -meeting  day,  of  which  we  have  spoken, 
they  beheld  a  female  approaching  the  house  across  the 
meadow.'  She  advanced  with  weary  step,  bearing  in 
her  hand  a  bundle  of  clothes. 

"  I  cannot  tell  who  she  is,  Elizabeth,"  said  Bunyan, 
in  reply  to  the  question  of  his  wife,  at  the  same  time 
straining  his  vision  to  peer  out  into  the  evening  twi 
light.  "  It  may  be  one  of  the  neighbor  girls,  coming 
to  spend  the  night  with  us  ;  or  perhaps  some  poor 
traveling  sister  who  needs  our  help." 

"  She  will  be  welcome,  then,"  said  the  gentle  wife, 
with  her  calm  maternal  smile,  as  she  placed  the  little 
Elizabeth  on  her  knee  and  kissed  the  bright  glowing 
cheeks  of  the  child. 

"  It's  not  one  of  the  neighbor  girls,  father,"  said 
Sarah,  who  stood  in  the  door  and  gazed  out  into  the 
deepening  gloom.  "  It  is  some  stranger,  and  yet  it 
seems  to  me  I  have  seen  her  before." 

Mary  sat  listening  ;  her  head  was  slightly  bent,  and 
rested  on  her  hand.  Her  face  was  very  sad.  Her 
thoughts,  were  with  William  in  his  lonely  wanderings. 

(327) 


328  MAEY   BUNYAN. 

At  Sarah's  remark  she  started.  A  beam  of  intelligence 
lighted  her  face. 

"  It  may  be  her,"  she  said  involuntarily  to  herself. 

By  this  time  the  female  was  crossing  the  little  stile 
that  led  into  the  yard.  It  was  too  dark  to  recognize 
her  features,  even  so  near. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,  friends.  I  believe  you  do  not 
know  me." 

Mary  sprung  from  her  seat,  and  started  forward  to 
meet  her. 

"  Mrs.  Gaunt !  Mrs.  Gaunt !"  she  exclaimed, "  I  knew 
it  must  be  her  !"  and  she  threw  her  arms  fondly  about 
the  kind  woman's  neck,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  We  welcome  you  to  our  home,  Sister  Gaunt,"  said 
the  father,  extending  to  her  his  hand.  We  are  glad  to 
see  you  once  more  on  earth.  How  is  it  with  you  ?" 

"  Well,  Bro.  Bunyan,"  the  Christian  woman  replied, 
"  thanks  to  God.  His  mercy  has  brought  me  safely  on 
my  way." 

Mrs.  Bunyan  greeted  her  with  her  kind,  sweet  smile 
and  pleasant  words  of  welcome,  and  the  sister  in  the 
Lord  was  soon  made  to  feel  at  home  among  his  people. 

A  wholesome  and  refreshing  repast  was  quickly 
served  for  her  by  Sarah,  who  had  now  supplanted  both 
her  mother  and  Mary  in  the  management  of  household 
affairs. 

While  the  visitor  partook  of  their  kindly  cheer,  she 
spoke  to  them  of  her  day's  journey,  and  of  the  condi 
tion  of  the  brethren  in  London,  and  recounted  to  their 
eager  ears  some  of  the  trials  and  hardships  the  people 
of  God  had  undergone  in  the  city. 

Mary  was   almost   wild   to   ask   her  something    of 


THE    VISIT.  329 

William  Dormer.  Whether  she  knew  why  he  had  left 
the  city,  and  if  he  had  ever  yet  been  heard  from  ?  but 
she  dared  not  breathe  his  name.  Her  heart  stood  still 
with  suspense,  and  her  cheek  was  white  as  Parian 
marble.  She  leaned  eagerly  forward  to  catch  every 
word,  every  intonation  of  Mrs.  Gaunt's  voice. 

"  Oh,  that  she  would  call  William's  name ! — that 
her  father  or  mother  would  say  a  wosd  about  'him  /" 
she  longed  to  ask  herself.  Once  she  essayed  to  do  so, 
but  the  words  choked  in  her  throat,  and  she  was 
silent. 

"  And  William  Dormer,  too,  is  among  the  sufferers," 
remarked  Mrs.  Gaunt. 

Mary  started  as  if  an  electric  shock  had  passed 
through  her  feeble  frame.  The  blood  mounted  high 
into  her  pallid  temples,  and  her  heart  throbbed  as  if  it 
would  burst  from  her  trembling  bosom.  She  held  her 
breath  to  hear.  Her  hand  which  rested  on  the  head 
of  little  John  at  her  side,  shook  as  if  she  had  been 
suddenly  seized  with  an  ague.  The  little  fellow  looked 
up  amazed  at  this  dreadful  trembling. 

"  Have  you  any  news  of  William,  Sister  Gaunt  ?" 
asked  Bunyan,  whose  quick  penetration  had  read  the 
desires  of  his  daughter's  heart. 

"  Yes,  and  good  news,  too.  That  is  my  principal 
business  to  see  you." 

"  What  is  it !  what  is  it,  Mrs,  Gaunt !"  exclaimed 
Mary,  as  site  started  from  her  seat  and  threw  her  arms 
violently  out  before  her.  This  was  her  habit  whenever 
highly  excited.  Her  natural  timidity  and  desire  to 
conceal  her  feelings  gave  way  under  the  thought  of 
hearing  from  William. 


330  MARY   BUNYAN. 

"  He  is  well,  and  doing  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Gaunt 
hastily,  to  relieve  Mary  of  her  preying  anxiety. 

"  And  where  is  he,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  in  London  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Mary,  you  know  he  left  there  last  win 
ter " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Bunyan,  "  he  called  here  last 
December,  in  his  flight.  But  we  thought  perhaps  he 
had  come  back  again." 

"  Oh,  no,  Bro.  Bunyan,  "William  cannot  return  to 
London, — now  at  least,"  she  added,  as  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Mary's  pale  face  by  the  rush-light.  "It 
would  be  death  for  him  to  come  back  at  this  time. 
The  persons  who  have  sworn  to  take  his  life  are  on  the 
watch  for  him,  and  should  he  fall  into  their  hands,  it 
would  be  all  over  with  the  dear  boy." 

A  shudder  seized  the  frame  of  Mary  as  she  heard 
these  fearful  words,  and  a  livid  pallor  overspread  her 
darkened  face.  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  brow,  as 
if  to  drive  back  torturing  thoughts.  A  deep  sigh 
escaped  her  bosom. 

"  The  hand  of  God  is  in  all  this,  my  daughter,"  said 
Bunyan  to  Mary.  "  Trust  the  Lord  Jehovah  ;  he  is 
everlasting  strength,  and  he  will  order  all  things  in 
wisdom  and  love  to  his  children." 

Tell  us  where  William  is  now,  Sister  Gaunt,  and 
then  tell  us  what  was  the  cause  of  his  having  to  fly. 
Pie  had  no  time  to  do  it  when  he  was  here,  and  we 
have  never  heard  from  him  since. 

"  William  was  in  Leuwarden,  a  small  place  in  the 
north  of  Holland,  two  months  ago,  and  in  good  busi 
ness.  I  met  a  man  last  week  who  had  seen  him,  and 
talked  to  him.  He  says  he  looks  well,  and  is  doing 
well,  and  he  is  learning  to  write,  that  he  mav  write  a 


THE   VISIT.  331 

letter  to  Mary.  He  sent  a  great  many  messages  by 
Mr.  Leeber,  to  all  his  friends,  and  made  him  promise, 
when  he  reached  London,  to  find  me  out,  and  deliver 
them  all  to  me,  that  I  might  come  and  tell  Mary.  He 
said  she  must  not  give  up  ;  he  would  come  back  again 
lust  as  soon  as  he  could  learn  that  the  danger  was  over 
and  then  they  would  be  happy  together.  He  sent 
word  for  me  to  tell  her  that  he  thought  of  her  every 
hour  he  lived  ;  she  was  ever  in  his  mind,  and  he  was 
looking  forward  to  the  time,  with  the  brightest  hopes, 
wheu  he  could  come  back  to  England  and  claim  her 
for  his  own. 

"  Atid,  Mary,  you  must  not  despair.  God  will  bring 
it  all  light,  my  child;  trust  in  him.  You  remem 
ber  ho  vr  he  saved  you  in  London  from  the  fearful 
Plague  when  he  struck  down  Margaret  Purdy  by  your 
side  ;  and  when  you  were  lost,  and  could  not  find  your 
way,  how  he  sent  deliverance  to  you.  He  has  been 
good  in  times  past.  His  loving  kindness  has  never 
failed  you.  Take  courage,  then,  and  trust  him  for  the 
future,  for  he  is  unchangeable,  and  his  tender  mercy  is 
over  you  still.  His  ways  are  not  as  our  ways,  but  his 
pity  endurech  forever.  He  never  leaveth  nor  forsak- 
eth  them.'1 

"  The  Lord  Jehovah  is  the  strength  of  his  people  ; 
he  will  save  them  from  all  their  distresses,"  responded 
Bunyan  to  the  remarks  of  Mrs.  Gaunt. 

"  But  tell  us,  Sister  Gaunt,  how  was  it  that  William 
had  to  flee  from  London  ?"  enquired  Mrs.  Bunyan,  as 
she  sat  hushing  the  little  Elizabeth  to  sleep  on  her 
knee.  "  We  have  thought  of  everything  in  trying  to 
account  for  it.  He  had  just  time  to  tell  us  it  was  for 
religion." 


332  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  all  the  particulars,  Sister  Bun- 
yan.  I  was  not  in  London  at  the  time,  having  gone 
out  into  Hertford  to  see  a  sick  sister  of  Mr.  Gaunt's, 
who  was  in  a  dreadful  condition.  "When  I  returned 
some  weeks  after  it  took  place,  I  could  not  find  any  one 
who  could  tell  me  the  straight  story.  But  it  seems 
that  William  and  the  brethren  had  met  together  in  the 
little  upper  room,  in  Southwark,  when  they  were  turned 
out  and  interrupted  by  a  band  of  desperate  fellows  who 
have  leagued  themselves  together  under  the  sanction 
of  the  officers  of  the  law  for  the  purpose  of  interrupt 
ing  all  Non-conformist  meetings.  This  dreadful  gang 
of  outlaws  broke  into  the  room,  and  with  horrid  oaths 
declared  they  would  bring  to  trial  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  they  could  lay  hands  upon.  "William,  to 
gether  with  other  young  men  present,  took  active  meas 
ures  to  prevent  the  execution  of  their  cruel  threat,  and 
at  last  they  were  able  to  drive  them  back  and  keep 
them  at  bay  until  the  aged  men  and  women  could 
make  their  escape  through  the  trap  door.  "William  was 
unfortunate  enough  in  the  desperate  struggle  to  throw 
one  of  the  young  men  down  the  stairway  and  seriously 
injure  him  ;  and  the  whole  band  then  and  there  de 
clared  they  would  avenge  their  comrade  at  the  peril 
of  their  own  lives.  The  insensible  condition  of  the 
fellow  drew  their  minds  from  the  attack,  and  the  young 
brethren  got  off.  Two  of  them,  who  are  known  to 
members  of  this  company  of  desperadoes,  made  their 
escape  with  William  to  Holland,  and  are  now  with  him 
in  the  same  manufactory  at  Leuwarden." 

"  But  can't  these  outlaws  be  brought  to  justice  ?" 
asked  Sarah  as  she  stood  wiping  the  plates.  "  Can't 
the  law  force  them  to  behave  themselves  ?" 


THE   VISIT.  333 

"  The  law  sanctions  their  outrageous  proceedings,  my 
child.  The  law  will  protect  all  who  take  part  against 
Non-conformists.  These  dreadful  fellows  act  out  the 
command  of  the  officers  of  law,  and  there  is  no  hope." 

"  But  couldn't  he  come  back  and  live  in  some  other 
part  of  England,  Mrs.  Gaunt  ?"  asked  Mary  timidly. 

"  There  is  no  hope  now,  my  child,"  replied  her 
father,  looking  tenderly  upon  her.  "We  must  trust  in 
God  to  help  us.  It  is  a  trained  band,  and  they  have 
their  accomplices  everywhere.  Spies  are  they,  and  no 
man  can  live  in  England  and  escape  their  eye.  Wil 
liam  must  remain  abroad  until  God  in  his  wisdom 
brings  an  end  to  the  present  state  of  tyranny.  Let  us 
look  to  him  for  mercy  and  thank  him  that  William  is 
safe." 

Mary  spoke  not.  It  was  a  deep  trial  to  her  soul, 
but  she  hadjearned  in  the  dark  afflictions  which  had 
surrounded  her  way  since  she  was  eleven  years  old,  to 
stand  still  and  murmur  not.  She  must  suffer,  yea, 
almost  to  heart-breaking,  but  she  would  not  complain 
since  God  who  feedeth  the  ravens  was  her  God.  She 
would  learn  entire  submission  to  his  divine  will,  and 
implore  his  grace  to  sustain  her  in  the  darkest  hour. 
William  was  prosperous  and  learning  to  write  ;  and 
she  would  hear  soon  from  him  again.  And  then  her 
father  could  answer  his  letters.  Oh,  what  a  comfort ! 
It  was  the  glorious  sunshine  tinging  the  dark  cloud 
which  had  so  long  hovered  over  her. 

The  friends  eat  for  some  time  conversing  on  subjects 
that  related  to  the  Redeemer's  kingdom.  At  length 
the  Bible  was  brought,  and  the  family  and  the  Christ 
ian  guest  gathered  around  the  table,  an*d  the  man  of 
God,  by  the  feeble  taper  light,  read  the  ninety-first 


334:  MABY   BUNYAN. 

Psalm.  "  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in 
all  generations." 

As  was  his  custom,  Bunyan  explained  as  he  read, 
and  exhorted  his  family  to  trust  in  God  because  of  his 
great  power  and  goodness.  When  he  came  to  the 
sixteenth  verse,  "  Let  thy  work  appear  unto  thy 
servants,  and  thy  glory  unto  thy  children,"  he  ad 
dressed  his  remarks  to  his  blind  daughter,  and  exhorted 
her  to  lean  upon  God,  and  recognize  his  hand  in  all 
the  events  of  her  life. 

In  the  prayer  which  followed,  he  commended  each 
member  of  his  family  by  name  to  God.  Affectionately 
he  spoke  of  the  dear  sister  who,  for  love  of  them, 
because  they  were  brethren  and  sisters  in  Christ  Jesus, 
had  left  her  home  to  bring  the  glad  news  of  the  loved 
absent  one.  "  Thy  will,  O  Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  done 
with  us  as  it  is  in  heaven,"  added  the  servant  of  God 
fervently. 

"  It  is  a  short  and  simple  prayer, 

But  'tis  the  Christian's  stay, 
Through  every  varied  scene  of  care, 

Until  his  dying  day, 
As  through  the  wilderness  of  life 

Calmly  he  wanders  on, 
His  prayer  in  every  time  of  strafe 

Is  still '  Thy  will  be  done.'  " 

That  night  Mary  slept  with  her  friend  ;  into  whose 
ear  she  poured  all  her  trials,  her  sorrows,  and  disap 
pointments. 

"  Theso.  •providences  are  dark,  Mary,  very  dark,  I 
know.  "We  cannot  read  the  mind  of  God  only  so  far 
as  he  vouchsafes  to  make  it  known  to  us,  but  we  must 
trust  him.  We  must  build  on  his  own  eternal  promises 
which  he  has  given  us  in  Christ  Jesus.  We  are  as 
babes,  we  do  not  know  what  is  best  for  us  ;  but  our 


THE   VISIT.  33-> 

father  knows,  and  just  what  is  for  onr  good  he  sends, 
for  lie  makes  all  things  work  together  for  good  to  his 
children.  This  has  been  my  stay  and  support  in  the 
darkest  hours  of  my  pilgrimage.  When  my  way  has 
seemed  hedged  in,  and  I  could  see  no  escape,  then  the 
Lord  himself  has  come  and  opened  up  a  way  of  deliv 
erance,  and  with  his  help  I  have  journeyed  on." 

"  But  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  that  "William  will 
ever  come  home.  But  oh  it  is  so  hard  to  know  that  he 
is  a  wanderer  in  a  far  off  land, — and  then,  oh  then, 
Mrs.  Gaunt,  if  he  should  die." 

She  shuddered  as  she  pronounced  the  last  word,  and 
started  up  in  bed  as  if  the  horrid  phantom  of  her  imag 
ination  were  a  reality. 

"  This  would  be  very  sad,  Mary,  but  even  if  it  should 
take  place  we  must  trust  in  God." 

"  Oh,  tell  me  not  of  it,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  my  heart  will 
break." 

"  It  is  best,  Mary,  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst. 
Death  is  before  ITS  all,  and  sooner  or  later  it  must 
come.  And  there  is  no  way  to  meet  it  except  by 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  Jesus.  He  only  can  give  us 
strength  to  say  farewell  to  those  we  love." 

The  young  girl  moaned.  Her  heart  was  well  nigh 
breaking  with  dreadful  apprehension.  She  turned  to 
Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  throwing  out  her  arms,  suddenly  and 
with  violence  exclaimed — 

"  "William  is  dead,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  you  know  he  is,"  she 
said  wildly,  convulsively  clasping  her  hand.  "  Oh  why 
did  you  not  tell  me,"  and  she  shrieked  with  anguish. 

"  ISTo,  no,  my  child,  "William  is  not  dead.  Do  calm 
yourself.  You  are  excited,  Mary.  I  tell  you  he  is  not 


336  MART   BUNYAN. 

dead,  but  doing  well,  and  God  grant  that  he  may  soon 
come  back  to  us." 

"  God  grant  it,"  responded  the  sobbing  girl. 

"  I  was  only  telling  you,  Mary,  that  it  is  always 
best,  by  firm  reliance  on  God,  to  prepare  ourselves  for 
what  may  come,  even  the  very  worst.  I  was  urging  it 
upon  you  as  a  Christian  duty.  Do  not  misunderstand 
me  nor  think  I  wish  to  deceive  you." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  will  hear  from  him  soon?" 

"  I  think  you  will.  The  young  gentleman  who  saw 
him  told  me  he  was  learning  to  write  that  he  might 
send  you  a  letter.  It  has  been  two  months  since  he 
left  Leuwarden,  and  you  know,  Mary,  that  William  is 
very  apt,  and  when  he  is  doing  anything  for  your  sake, 
it  will  make  him  more  earnest  still  to  gain  his  end." 

"  I  will  try  to  wait  with  patience.  Maybe  the  letter 
will  come  after  awhile.  I  hope  it  will  not  be  long." 

"  For  your  sake,  Mary,  as  well  as  my  own,  I  hope  it 
will  not  be  many  weeks.  William  seems  to  me  like  a 
son  ;  and  my  heart  was  sorely  grieved  when  I  got 
back  to  London  from  Hertford,  and  found  what  had 
been  done,  and  that  he  was  gone.  But  though  I 
cannot  tell  for  what  purpose  this  has  been  done,  I  am 
constrained  to  say  that  it  is  all  'right." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  I  know  that  it  is  all  right,  but  it 
is  so  hard  to  feel  it !  80  hard"  she  repeated  sorrow 
fully.  If  we  could  always  be  submissive  to  the  will  of 
God,  we  would  have  but  little  trouble  here  on  this 
earth.  I  wish  I  could  be  willing  to  all  these  things, 
but  I  am  so  weak  I  cannot." 

"  The  flesh  truly  is  weak,  Mary.  We  cannot  think 
a  good  thought  unless  the  spirit  of  God  give  it  to  us. 
We  are  but  dust  and  wretched  sinners  in  his  sight, 


THE   VISIT.  337 

unless  we  are  found  in  Jesus.  Then  we  are  heirs  of 
heaven,  and  raised  above  angels  and  arch-angels. 
My  trials  have  been  great,  Mary,  and  I  do  not  know 
what  is  before  me  ;  but  this  I  do  know,  that  the  deeper 
the  affliction  the  nearer  God  is  to  us. 

Ah,  how  true  was  that  utterance,  "  And  I  do  not 
know  what  is  before  me."  Devoted  woman  ! — could 
she  have  drawn  aside  the  veil  which  shut  out  the 
future,  and  looked  down* the  current  of  years,  she 
would  have  seen  direct  in  her  pathway  a  prison  and  a 
stake  amidst  piles  of  lighted  faggots.  God  was  even 
now  preparing  her  for  these,  but  she  knew  it  not. 

Thus  the  two  talked  of  this  world's  trials  and  the 
sure  protection  of  Jehovah  to  all  his  children  until  the 
night  was  far  advanced.  Mary  was  comforted.  Her 
mind  grew  calm  under  the  sweet  words  of  the  experi 
enced  Christian. 

Mrs.  Gaunt,  through  the  persuasion  of  Bunyan  (who 
saw  that  her  society  was  a  great  stay  to  his  poor  blind 
Mary,)  remained  until  the  autumn. 

Ever  ready  to  do  good,  living  for  her  Master,  and 
not  to  herself,  she  went  about  among  the  little  flock 
at  Bedford,  everywhere  dispensing  comfort  and  joy. 
She  visited  the  sick  and  distressed,  and  while  she  alle 
viated  the  ills  of  the  body,  she  fed  the  soul  on  the 
bread  of  eternal  life,  and  pointed  the  throbbing  bosom 
to  the  fountain  of  living  water.  She  talked  to  those 
concerned  for  the  salvation  of  their  souls,  and  directed 
the  inquirer  the  way  to  Zion.  She  became  as  much 
resp  ected  and  beloved  in  Elstow  and  Bedford,  as  she 
was  in  London. 

During  her  stay  at  Elstow,  Mary  received  a  letter 
from  William,  full  of  encouragement  and  hope.  Ha 

15 


338  MARY    BUNYAN. 

spoke  of  future  joy,  and  bade  her  be  strong  and  cheer 
ful,  for  brighter  days  were  yet  before  them.  He  set 
no  time  for  return  to  his  native  land.  This  he  could 
not  do.  But  he  was  trusting  in  God  to  open  up  a  way 
for  him  to  come  back  to  the  bosom  of  those  he  loved. 

The  hearts  of  the  parents  were  made  glad  by  the 
happiness  of  the  daughter.  The  smile  returned  to  her 
sweet  face,  and  buoyancy  to  her  step. 

Alas !  all  earthly  joys  are  as  fleeting  as  the  rainbow 
hue,  or  evening  cloud  of  summer.  A  dark  storm  even 
now  was  lowering  over  the  little  cottage.  Soon  it 
would  expend  its  fury  on  the  peaceful  inmates. 

Bunyan  had  become  too  popular.  The  green-eyed 
monster,  Envy,  had  marked  him  for  his  prey.  And 
soon  he  was  called  to  pass  through  another  severe 
trial.  God  keeps  his  children  in  the  furnace,  but 
thanks  to  his  holy  name,  Christ  sits  by  as  a  refiner  of 
silver.  When  they  reflect  his  image  perfectly,  he  then 
relieves  them,  but  not  until  then. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

SOLILOQUY    OF    MR.     LANE,     THE    PREACHER. 

"  HE  shall  meet  liis  reward  if  I  live — that  he  shall ! 
The  impudent  upstart  Dissenter  !  He  shall  never  lord 
it  over  me  after  that  manner !  No,  no  ;  he  must,  and 
shall,  be  brought  down.  Ah,  I'll  manage  it !  I'll 
manage  it !" 

The  speaker  was  a  tall,  lank  man,  with  light  hair, 
and  eagle  face.  And  the  fierce  intensity  of  his  dark 
eye  was  fearful  to  behold. 

As  he  spoke,  he  rose,  and  rapidly  paced  the  room, 
like  one  bent  on  some  desperate  purpose.  He  struck 
the  clenched  fist  of  his  right  hand  violently  into  the 
open  palm  of  his  left,  as  if  aiming  a  deadly  blow  at  his 
victim.  His  eyes  flashed  and  darted,  and  his  com 
pressed  lips  spoke  more  than  his  words,  the  deep 
vengeance  of  his  heart.  His  whole  manner  showed 
the  highest  state  of  nervous  excitability,  and  the 
expression  of  his  narrow  face  told  of  the  most  deter 
mined  revenge.  It  was  fearful  to  see  one  who  pro 
fessed  to  minister  in  holy  things  thus  the  subject  of 
such  fiendish  passion.  One,  too,  who,  when  before  his 
fellow-men,  affected  the  utmost  charity  and  kindness. 
Those  who  saw  him  mixing  with  the  world  would 
never  have  suspected  that,  behind  the  scenes,  the  man 

[3391 


340  MAET   BUNYAN. 

of  such  urbane  manner,  such  pleasant  address,"  could 
act  truly  the  part  of  a  demon. 

He  strode  the  room  rapidly,  muttering  to  himself 
words  of  dark  revenge.  His  eye  sought  glaringly 
every  nook  and  corner  of  the  apartment,  as  if  to  spy 
out  his  hated  foe. 

"  Ah,  yes !"  he  spoke  in  a  louder  tone,  as  his-  malice 
grew  hotter  and  hotter  by  feeding  on  itself.  "  Ah, 
yes  !  I'll  make  it  tell  to  his  sorrow.  He  shall  see  what 
it  is  to  interrupt  me  in  my  own  congregation  !  I'll 
teach  him  to  mind  his  own  business  !  And  this  popu 
larity,  which  he  has  so  unrighteously  won,  I'll  make 
the  means  of  stabbing  him  to  the  heart.  Yes,  I'll  do 
it !  But  I  must  lay  my  plan  deep,  lest  I  be  defeated." 

"  Ah,  it  shall  be  a  dear  ride  to  him,  that  ride  to 
Gamlingay  !  I'll  make  it  tell  to  his  ruin.  Little  did 
he  think,  as  they  rode  along  so  proudly,  that  it  was  to 
his  shame  and  utter  overthrow.  He  must  have  his 
locks  shorn  of  their  strength.  His  Delilah  shall  be  his 
betrayer." 

And  a  low,  demoniacal  chuckle  rung  through  the 
room,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  together  in  savage 
ecstacy,  and  smacked  his  lips  in  the  excess  of  his  joy, 
while  his  dark,  deep-set  eyes  twinkled  with  wild, 
malicious  delight, 

He  seated  himself  for  a  moment,  and  took  his  pen, 
as  if  to  sketch  out  a  plan  of  procedure.  But  before 
finishing  one  line  he  threw  it  aside,  and  commenced 
again  his  rapid  strides,  at  the  same  time  speaking  to 
himself  in  a  low,  guttural  tone.  His  thin  light  hair 
was  flung  wildly  back  from  his  contracted  forehead, 
through  the  temples  of  which  the  heated  blood  coursed 
vehemently.  Ever  and  anon  he  ran  his  hands  through 


SOLILOQUY   OF   MR.    LANE.  341 

his  hair,  and  pulled  at  it  most  violently  ;  then  he  would 
strike  his  head  and  rub  hands  quickly  over  his  face. 

He  was  like  one  demented.  A  looker-on  would  have 
pronounced  him  a  ready  subject  for  a  lunatic  asylum. 
He  was  in  truth  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject  of 
destroying  his  hated  victim. 

And  what  had  his  victim  done  to  incur  this  insatiate 
malice  ?  What  ? 

He  had  preached  the  word  of  God  in  its  purity  with 
earnestness  and  power,  and  thereby  won  souls  to  Christ. 
And  was  this  sufficient  cause  for  revenge  ?  Ah,  yes  ; 
his  malice  thought  it  interfered  with  the  popularity 
and  selfish  interests  of  the  man  who  was  determined  to 
rule  at  all  hazards.  And  this  man,  too,  was  a  preacher 
of  the  everlasting  word  ;  one  who  went  in  and  out  be 
fore  a  congregation  to  break  to  them  the  bread  of  life, 
and  to  lead  them  in  the  way  of  truth  and  righteous 
ness.  Most  horrid  thought ! 

"  But  how,  ah,  yes,  how,  shall  I  accomplish  my  pur 
pose,  and  not  destroy  myself?  How  shall  I  ruin  this 
wretch,  this  tinker  preacher,  and  not  betray  myself  ? 
That's  the  question.  How  can  I  make  that  ride  to 
Gamlingay  tell  to  his  utter  disgrace  ?  I  must  get  a 
rumor  abroad,  ah,  hah,  that's  the  thing  !  Rumor  al 
ways  gains  by  the  running.  I  have  only  to  cast  out  a 
suspicion  and  bring  that  ride  as  proof  of  it,  and  set 
the  thing  agoing  among  my  people,  and  my  purpose  is 
accomplished.  But  how  am  I  to  begin  ? 

"  Let  me  see  ;  have  I  not  heard  some  whisper  against 
his  character  ?"  and  he  scratched  his  head,  as  if  to  dig 
out  of  his  excited  brain  something  for  his  horrid  un 
dertaking. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  now,"  and  he  struck  his  hands 


34:2  MAEY   BUNYA1*. 

together  and  rubbed  them  iii  the  excess  of  his  delight. 
"  Ah,  yes,  that  story  I  heard  about  him  and  one  of  his 
congregation  !  It  was  a  matter  of  no  importance,  but 
it  will  serve  my  ends,  and  I  will  make  it  apply  to  this 
girl — this  Agnes  Beaumont.  I've  got  him  now  !  He 
cannot  escape,  ah,  ha,  ha!  'They  that  exalt  them 
selves  shall  be  brought  low.'  Yes,  he  shall  lick  the 
dust,  shall  cower  in  disgrace  ;  and  instead  of  the  praise 
of  all  men,  he  shall  receive  their  contempt."  A  look 
of  fiendish  pleasure,  mixed  with  an  expression  of  dark 
malignity,  passed  over  his  excited  face. 

"  But  stop — let  me  see.  What  shall  I  do  if  I  am 
asked  my  authority  ?  I  must  be  ready  to  throw  all  re 
sponsibility  from  my  own  shoulders.  It  will  never  do 
for  me  to  accuse  him.  Ah,  no,  it  must  never  be  known 
that  ./am  his  accuser.  This  would  frustrate  all  my 
ends,  and  bring  the  disgrace  on  my  own  head."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  drew  down  his  brow,  stroked 
his  hair,  and  rubbed  his  face  violently  with  his  hands, 
while  every  nerve  in  him  twitched  with  the  intensity 
of  excitement. 

"  I  must  manage  to  have  this  •  part  of  my  game 
played  by  some  one  else.  It  will  never  do  for  me  to 
be  suspected.  Oh,  no.  I,  William  Lane,  of  Bedford, 
pastor  of  the  large  congregation  at  Ed  worth,  must  not 
be  known  in  this  matter.  I  will  do  the  work  for  him, 
but  it  must  be  my  management.  Let  me  see — who 
will  act  for  me  ?  Can  I  not  get  some  one  to  set  this 
rumor  afloat  ?  If  I  can  the  thing  is  done,  my  aim  is 
accomplished,  this  upstart  preacher  silenced  forever, 
and  I  shall  never  be  suspected  of  any  hand  in  it. 
That's  it,  that's  it !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  and  he  laughed  aloud 
at  the  supposed  feasibility  of  his  own  plan. 


SOLILOQUY   OF   MR.    LANE.  343 

"  But  now  for  the  man  to  carry  this  out,"  said  lie, 
biting  his  lips,  and  running  his  hands  rapidly  through 
his  hair.  "  Who  will  be  the  man  ?  I  know  of  two  or 
three.  I'll  approach  them  cautiously  at  first,  and  if 
the  thing  doesn't  take  with  them,  I'll  try  some  one  else. 
I  know  I  can  find  a  man.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  sure  of 
that " 

A  rap  was  heard  at  the  study  door. 

"  "Who  can  that  be  ?  I  wonder  if  I  could  have  been 
heard  ?  I  must  not  appear  excited,  lest  I  arouse  sus 
picion.  "Where  is  my  Bible  ?  I  must  seem  to  be  read- 

ing." 

He  seized  his  Bible,  and  laid  it  open  on  the  table  be 
side  his  chair.  Then  he  glanced  into  the  little  mirror 
that  hung  at  the  further  end  of  his  book-case,  smoothed 
his  hair  with  his  hands,  and  at  the  call  of  a  second  rap, 
moved  slowly  towards  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Farry,  good  morning,  sir !  hap 
py  to  see  you,  "Walk  in,  and  be  seated.  How  is  your 
health,  this  morning  ?  Yery  glad  to  see  you.  But  be 
seated." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE      CONFERENCE      BETWEEN      LANE,       THE 
PREACHER,      AND       FARRY. 

THE  preacher  drew  a  chair  near  the  table,  on  which  lay 
the  open  Bible,  and  motioned  the  visitor  to  it,  at  the 
same  time  drawing  his  chair  round,  so  that  they  two, 
when  seated,  should  be  vis-a-vis,  and  very  near  to 
gether. 

The  guest  was,  in  some  respects,  altogether  different 
from  the  preacher.  He  was  low,  not  thick-set,  with 
very  black  hair  and  eyes,  the  expression  of  which 
showed  calm  thought  and  some  decision  of  purpose. 
His  forehead  was  broad,  but  not  high  ;  reasoning  fac 
ulties  pretty  well  developed,  while  the  moral  head  was 
quite  defective.  His  mouth  was  small,  and  there  was 
about  it  a  certain  degree  of  rigidity,  which  showed  in 
flexibility  of  will.  He  was  a  member  of  Mr.  Lane's 
congregation,  and  a  violent  opposer  of  Bunyan. 

The  two  had  often  together  berated  the  man  of  God 
for  an  upstart  and  a  seducer  of  the  people ;  a  braggart, 
who  was  turning  the  heads  of  everybody,  and  filling 
them  with  all  manner  of  old  fashioned  whimsies. 
They  had  agreed,  that  if  his  views  obtained  (and  it 
seemed  likely  they  would,)  their  notions  must  be 
entirely  subverted. 

[344] 


THE   CONFERENCE.  345 

The  visitor  fidgeted  uneasily  on  his  chair,  and  his 
manner  bespoke  an  unusual  degree  of  agitation. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Farry  ?"  asked  the 
preacher,  "  you  seem  unusually  uncomfortable  this 
evening.  Has  anything  occurred  to  disturb  your 
peace  ?  Has  anything  gone  wrong  in  your  business  ? 
I  hope  you  have  met  with  no  misfortune." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  replied  the  visitor 
calmly.  "  I  was  only  agitated  by  the  startling  news 
that  reached  my  ears  a  few  minutes  since.  I  cannot 
recover  from  it." 

"  And  what  is  that  ? — do  tell  me,  anything  going 
wrong  among  our  people.  Is  that  tinker  preacher  at 
work  again,  upsetting  all  our  plans  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible,  sir,  you  have  not  heard  the  news  of 
old  Mr.  Beaumont's  sudden  death  ?" 

"  Not  a  word  of  it,  sir,  not  a  word  of  it !  I  have 
been  in  the  house  all  day,  and  have  seen  no  one.  But 
tell  me  !  did  he  die  in  a  fit,  or  what  ?" 

"  Poisoned,  sir,  poisoned !" 

"  Is  it  possible?  By  whom  ?  "Who  could  be  so  vile 
as  to  poison  that  worthy  old  man  ?" 

"  It  is  not  known,  but  it  is  said  that  Agnes,  his 
daughter,  was  the  only  one  in  the  house  with  him  at 
the  time  of  his  death." 

"  You  astonish  me,  Mr.  Farry !  Do  you  suppose,  for 
a  moment,  that  the  daughter  would  take  the  life  of  her 
father  ?  What  object  could  she  have  in  view  ?  What 
could  have  induced  her  to  commit  the  foul  deed?" 

"  It's  hard  to  tell,"  replied  the  lawyer,  looking 
cautiously  around  him,  "  what  could  make  a  child 
poison  her  father.  I  do  not  think  she  could  have  done 
it  of  her  own  accord.  I  have  known  Agnes  Beaumont 

15"! 


34:6  MARY    BUNYAN. 

a  long  time.  Once  I  had  a  thought  of  making  her  my 
wife,  and  I  cannot  believe  she  would  have  done  this 
abominable  deed  unless  she  had  been  instigated  to  do 
it.  I " 

"  But  is  it  a  fact  that  the  old  man  is  dead,  and  was 
poisoned  ?"  interrupted  the  preacher. 

"No  doubt  of  it  at  all.  I  have  seen  the  corpse.  He 
went  to  bed  last  night  as  well  as  could  be,  and  before 
midnight  he  was  dead. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  And  you  say  that  only  his  daughter 
was  with  him  in  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that  is  suspicious,  truly.  But  why  did  she 
do  this  horrid  thing  ?" 

The  lawyer  drew  his  chair  up  more  closely,  and 
casting  a  prying  glance  around  the  room,  to  be 
assured  that  no  one  could  hear,  he  uttered,  in  a  half 
whisper : 

"  I  suspect  that  preacher  Bunyan  for  having  a  hand 
in  it." 

"  What !"  said  Lane,  springing  from  his  chair,  and 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  while  an  expression  of 
fiendish  delight  passed  over  his  face.  "  What !  do  you 
think  that  Bunyan  really  had  a  hand  in  it  ?" 

"  I  would  not  be  the  least  surprised." 

"  ]STor  I.  Has'nt  there  been  a  suspicion  about  him 
and  this  girl  for  some  time?  Last  Saturday,  I,  myself, 
saw  her  riding  behind  him  into  the  lower  end  of 
Gamlingay.  And  she  sat  as  close  to  him  as  could  be, 
and  he  was  in  earnest  conversation  with  her." 

"  Did  you  see  this  yourself  ?  May  be  you  were 
mistaken." 


TIII-;  CONFERENCE.  34/T 

"  Oh,  no,  I  cannot  be  mistaken.  I  saw  them  both, 
and  spoke  to  them.  I  know  Agnes  Beaumont  well." 

"  And  was  no  one  with  them,  Mr.  Lane?" 

"  Her  brother  and  sister-in-law  were  on  another 
horse  some  distance  behind,  so  that  they  could  not 
hear  what  the  two  were  talking  about." 

"  And  you  saw  that  yourself?" 

"  I  did,  sir,  I  assure  you  :  and  I  then  thought  of  all 
that  had  been  whispered  into  my  ear.  It  is  strange, 
sir,  it  is  strange.  And  now  that  the  girl's  father  is 
dead  of  poison,  and  that,  too,  so  soon  after,  it  looks 
very  suspicious,  very  suspicions  indeed." 

"Strange,  sir,  strange,"  interrupted  the  lawyer. 
"  It  is  confirmation  strong  of  what  I  have  just  said, 
that  the  wretch  must  have  had  a  hand  in  the  poor  old 
man's  death." 

"  To-day  is  Wednesday,  and  you  say  he  died  last 
night,  before  midnight ;  and  it  was  only  last  Saturday 
morning  that  I  saw  them.  The  deed  could  not  have 
been  done  sooner.  Ah,  that  man !  that  wretched 
man  !  JNot  content  with  ruining  the  daughter,  he 
must  poison  the  father.  He  certainly  will  be  sunk  in 
the  deepest  pits  of  disgrace,  sir.  His  sins  have  over 
taken  him  at  last.  Ah,  what  will  become  of  his  fair 
name  now  ? — the  boaster,  the  braggart !"  and  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Lane  chuckled  with  fiendish  delight. 

"  And  is  this  matter  much  talked  about  ?"  he  asked 
of  his  visitor  eagerly. 

"  The  old  man's  sudden  death  is  spoken  of  every 
where  ;  but  no  one  that  I  know  of  suspects  Bunyan 
and  the  girl." 

"  But  the  world  must  know  of  it,  Mr.  Lane.  Poor 
girl !  she  is  to  be  pitied ;  but  that  infamous  wretch. 


348  MARY    BUNYAN. 

who  led  her  astray,  and  then  incited  her  to  take  her 
father's  life,  he  ought  to  be  hung.  He  deserves  the 
execrations  of  all  mankind;  Let  his  name  go  forth  to 
the  world  as  the  destroyer  of  virtue,  and  a  murderer. 
He  deserves  the  faggot  and  the  stake,  and  my  word 
i'or  it,  he  shall  catch  it  yet." 

"  But  how  can  we  prove  these  things,  Mr.  Farry  ?" 

"  Send  for  the  Coroner,  and  let  him  examine  the 
body.  I  am  sure  it  already  shows  marks  of  poison. 
Did  this  morning  when  I  was  there." 

"  Yes,  yes,  just  so — no  doubt  of  it ;  must  be  so, 
from  all  you  have  told  me.  And  that  wretched  tinker 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  He'll  get  his  dues  now.  But 
have  you  spoken  of  your  suspicions  to  any  one  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  I  thought  I  would  come  and  see  you, 
and  know  what  you  had  to  say  about  the  matter  before 
I  went  too  far." 

"  Right,  right.  The  world  must  know  it.  That 
scoundrel  must  be  shown  up.  He  has  imposed  upon 
us  long  enough.  And  the  only  way  for  him  to  be 
caught,  is  to  ferret  the  matter  out.  You  send  -for  the 
Coroner  immediately,  before  the  poor  girl  has  time  to 
escape,  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  you  can  get  the 
whole  story  out  of  her  at  once.  Scare  her  a  little. 
But  perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  take  her  by  herself 
first,  and  get  her  to  tell  it  all,  and  then  take  it  down 
in  writing.  Our  aim  must  be  to  catch  that  man.  "We 
don't  care  so  much  about  the  poor  creature.  He  made 
her  do  it  all.  You  see,  Mr.  Farry,  we  must  manage 
this  matter  well,  that  that  vile  offender  may  be 
brought  to  justice.  Yes,  yes,  we'll  have  him  now. 
He  can't  escape  this  time  !  Ha,  ha,  ha !" 


THE    CONFKKKNOK.  34:9 

"  And  do  you  think  it  will  be  best  to  see  Agnes, 
and  get  her  to  confess  her  crime  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  Get  her  to  tell  all  Bunyan  had  to 
do  in  the  matter.  He  is  the  chief  offender.  And  the 
sooner  it  is  looked  into,  the  better." 

"  1  will  see  to  it  this  very  evening  !"  exclaimed  the 
lawyer,  rising  to  go. 

"  Yes,  do.  But  look  here,  Farry,  whatever  you  do, 
don't  you  mention  my  name  in  it.  Keep  me  clear. 
You  must  guard  me  as  yon  would  37our  own  life. 
Don't  forget  this — it  is  an  important  point.  It  would 
not  do  for  me  to  know  anything  about  it.  People 
might  say  it  was  envy,  because  that  wretch  is  more 
popular  just  now  than  I  am.  Do  you  hear,  Farry  ? 
Don't  mention  me,  for  your  life." 

"  I'll  watch  your  interests  ;  don't  doubt  me,"  and 
the  lawyer*  closed  the  study  door,  while  his  instigator 
remained  within  to  gloat  over  his  vile  machinations 
and  the  prospect  of  the  eternal  disgrace  of  one  whom 
he  hated  merely  because  he  wras  good  and  God  had 
blessed  his  efforts  to  spread  the  Redeemer's  kingdom 
on  earth. 

"  Yes,  now  'tis  done,"  he  repeated  triumphantly,  as 
the  door  closed  behind  his  accomplice.  "  Ah,  yes,  the 
matter  is  at  work !  A  wretch  and  a  murderer !  I 
would  not  give  a  farthing  for  his  reputation,  even  if  he 
gets  off  with  his  life.  He'll  think  he  had  better  have 
stayed  in  prison  and  moped  over  his  books,  than  to 
have  come  out  to  meet  this.  (Conscience  whispered, 
perhaps  the  man  is  innocent.  What  right  have  you  to 
believe  him  guilty  ?)  Innocent  or  guilty,  what  mat 
ters  that  to  me  ?  Let  him  be  prostrated  ;  he  is  a  vile 
wretch,  any  way  ;  the  world  ought  to  be  rid  of  him. 


350  MARY   BUNYAN. 

He  ought  to  be  sent  out  of  the  way  of  all  genteel 
people,  any  way,  with  his  old  worn-out  notions,  and 
his  great  outcry  against  sin.  "We  have  no  use  for  such 
preachers,  /heartily  despise  them.  But  who  would 
have  believed  it  possible  that  things  could  have 
worked  so  to  my  hand  ?  Murder  added  to  the  other  ! 
Oh  !  it  must  ruin  him  forever  !  The  upstart,  tinker, 
braggart,  murderer  !  I'll  show  him  what  it  is  to  inter 
fere  with  me  /"  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lane  smiled,  stroked 
back  his  hair,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together  in  antici 
pation  of  a  result  he  had  for  a  long  time  most  ardently 
desired. 


CHAPTER      XXXIII. 

BUNYAN'S    GREAT    TRIAL. 

WITH  a  heavier  heart  than  he  had  ever  known  before 
since  God,  through  Christ,  had  spoken  peace  to  his  soul 
in  the  forgiveness  of  his  sins,  did  John  Bunyan,  of 
Elstow,  tread  the  highway  and  meadows  between  Bed 
ford  and  his  cottage  home  on  that  evening  of  the  12th 
of 'December,  1678.  He  had  that  day  gone  to  Bed 
ford  for  the  purpose  of  buying  little  necessaries  for  his 
family.  There  he  had  met  Mr.  "Wilson,  the  pastor  at 
Kitchen,  who,  with  tears  and  sorrow,  had  told  him  of 
the  rumors  against  him  just  beginning  to  spread 
through  his  neighborhood. 

"  God  knows  I  am  innocent  of  these  things,  Bro. 
Wilson,"  replied  Bunyan,  when  he  had  finished  his  sad 
disclosures.  "  It  is  the  work  of  some  enemy,  who  seeks 
my  rum.  And  I  cannot  tell  what  any  one  has  against 
me.  Surely,  I  have  suffered  enough  to  disarm  even 
the  cruelest  foe.  God  knows  it  is  hard  to  be  thus  evil 
spoken  against,  but  it  is  sweet  to  know  that  you  are 
not  guilty.  Surely  I  am  a  man  of  much  sorrow  ;  lam 
persecuted,  sore-persecuted,  down  trodden.  God  knows 
when  my  sorrows  will  end." 
[3511 


352  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

The  servant  of  God,  Mr.  Wilson,  of  Kitchen,  tried  to 
comfort  the  poor,  distressed  man. 

"  These  things  are  very  grievous,  but  they  do  not 
come  upon  us  without  the  knowledge  of  God,  my  broth 
er.  He  permits  them  for  some  wise  purpose,  which  we 
cannot  now  see.  They  are  for  your  good,  and  for  the 
honor  and  glory  of  his  name,  though  we  cannot  now 
see  how  it  is  possible.  Our  strength  is  so  weak,  we 
are  so  feeble  in  faith,  that  we  cannot  build  on  the 
promises  of  God,  as  it  is  our  privilege  to  do.  Man  can 
not  do  to  you  anything  without  the  permission  of  God. 
The  hearts  of  all  men  are  in  his  hands,  and  he  turns 
them  whithersoever  he  will.  It  is  all  right,  Bro.  Bun- 
yan,  though  hard  to  bear.  May  God  give  you  grace 
to  endure  it." 

"  Ah,  it  is  hard,  hard  !  Imprisonment  is  nothing  to 
it.  My  brethren  then  knew  I  was  suffering  for  right 
eousness'  sake,  and  I  had  their  sympathies  and  their 
prayers  ;  but  maybe  the  Evil  One  will  put  it  into  the 
heads  of  some  of  them  to  believe  these  things.  I  do 
not  mind  the  world,  Bro.  Wilson,  but  oh,  to  be  suspect 
ed  by  my  brethren  !  those  with  whom  I  have  taken 
sweet  counsel — this  is  more  than  I  can  bear  !  O  God  ! 
why  am  I  thus  afflicted  ?"  he  exclaimed,  in  insupport 
able  anguish.  "  '  Is  there  no  escape  from  the  net  of 
the  fowler  ?'  Shall  I  be  devoured  by  the  enemy  !" 

"  God  is  true,  Bro.  Bunyan,  God  is  true.  Look  to 
Him." 

"  Yes,  I  know  God  is  true  ;  but  man  is  so  false,  so 
deceitful  !  When  shall  I  be  delivered  from  them  that 
seek  to  destroy  me  ?" 

"  Our  path  is  marked  out  before  us,  my  brother. 
Our  Father  who  knows  the  end  from  the  beginning, 


BUNYAN'S  GREAT  TRIAL.  353 

sees  it  all  the  way  along,  even  before  we,  as  pilgrims, 
enter  upon  it.  He  puts  in  our  way  jnst  what  is  best 
for  us.  Sometimes  he  puts  sickness  ;  sometimes  the 
death  of  our  loved  ones  ;  sometimes  bodily  afflictions, 
disease,  loss  of  property  ;  sometimes  imprisonment, 
and  sometimes  the  persecutions  of  calumniators.  He 
does  it  all.  There  they  are  in  the  narrow  path  that  we 
have  to  walk  in,  just  where  they  ought  to  be  for  our 
good.  And  we  cannot  jump  over  them  ;  we  cannot 
get  round  them.  We  cannot  shut  our  eyes,  and  re 
main  ignorant  of  them.  We  have  to  go  straight  along 
through  them,  and  sometimes  we  have  to  get  the  heav 
iest  burden  and  tread  the  narrrowest,  rockiest  way,  be 
fore  we  can  be  made  to  look  to  the  hill  from  whence 
our  strength  cometh.  We  have  got  to  kiss  the  hand 
that  chastens  us,  before  our  stripes  are  healed.  It  is 
God's  way,  and  it  is  good  and  righteous.  These  very 
trials  you  are  enduring  now  will  drive  you  more  closely 
to  the  Cross  ;  will  make  you  cling  there,  and  your  soul 
will  feed  on  Jesus  and  his  promises.  You  can  live 
above  the  world,  my  brother,  even  while  it  frowns  upon 
you." 

"  I  would  glorify  God  in  all  I  do,  but  I  cannot  see 
how  this  is  to  make  for  his  honor  and  glory." 

"  It  may  serve,  in  after  years,  to  give  consolation  to 
some  poor  brother,  when  he  is  called  upon  to  go  through 
the  same  strait.  God  will  bring  you  out  if  you  are  inno> 
cent.  Truth  is  a  part  of  his  nature,  and  he  will  defend 
it  to  the  end." 

"  I  am  innocent  !  God  knows  I  am  innocent !  1 
could  not  do  these  things  for  all  this  world.  But  how 
am  I  to  show  my  innocence  ?  I  see  no  way  of  escape. 
You  tell  me  this  poor  old  man  was  poisoned,  and  that 


354  MARY    BUNYAN. 

his  daughter,  Agnes,  has  done  it ;  and  the  people  say 
I  must  have  had  a  hand  in  it,  because  I  have  misled 
her,  and  she  rode  behind  me  last  Saturday  to  Gamlin- 
gay.  I  took  pity  on  her,  poor  child,  and  let  her  ride 
behind  me  because  she  was  longing  so  to  go  to  meet 
ing.  I  did  not  want  to  do  it,  but  I  found  her  at  her 
brother's,  and  she  begged  me  to  give  her  a  seat,  for  she 
could  not  walk  through  the  snoAV,  and  her  brother  had 
no  horse  for  her  to  ride.  I  talked  to  her  about  the 
things  of  God  all  the  time,  riding  along  with  her 
brother  and  sister,  who  were  on  the  same  way.  I  wonder 
who  could  have  been  so  wicked  as  to  turn  that  into 
mischief?  We  did  not  meet  any  one  on  the  way  but 
neighbor  Harrow's  son,  and  old  Bro.  Pipes,  and  their 
children,  and  1  am  sure  none  of  these  would  have  told 
such  a  dreadful  tale  on  me." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause, 
u  yes,  I  saw  Mr.  Lane,  just  as  we  were  passing  through 
the  town's  end  ;  and  I  remember  now,  he  looked  at 
me  hard  and  long ;  but  he  spoke  in  a  friendly  manner. 
I  wonder  if  he  would  do  me  this  great  harm  !  I  know 
he  is  not  very  kindly  disposed  to  me,  but  surely  he 
could  not  lie  like  this.  Do  you  know  who  was  first 
heard  to  speak  of  this  matter,  Bro.  "Wilson  ?  Who  says 
they  saw  Agnes  riding  behind  me  to  Gamlingay  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  only  heard  that  this  is  the 
runior,  and  I  have  come  to  you  to  let  you  Jiiiow  it,  that 
you  may  meet  it  as  you  think  is  best." 

"  I  must  leave  it  in  the  hands  of  God.  I  don't  know 
how  to  set  myself  about  proving  my  innocence.  If  I 
am  attacked,  I  will  defend  myself  as  well  as  I  can.  I 
must  cast  my  burden  on  God,  and  leave  it  to  him,  for 
I  am  in  a  narrow  strait,  and  sore-pressed.  Pray  for 


BHUTAN'S  GREAT  TRIAL.  355 

me,  Bro.  Wilson.  Ask  God  that  all  my  afflictions 
may  redound  to  his  glory  and  my  good.  I  would  be 
like  a  wearied  child  in  his  hands.  O  God,  pity  me, 
and  help  me !" 

"With  words  of  Christian  love  and  comfort,  these  two 
tried  soldiers  of  the  Cross  solaced  each  other.  They 
parted.  The  one  to  go  to  his  happy  family,  over 
which  no  visible  shadow  rested  ;  the  other,  with  bowed 
spirit  and  tried  faith,  to  find  his  way  to  those  whom  he 
loved,  and  to  whom  he  must  communicate  the  dire 
intelligence  which  was  well  nigh  breaking  his  heart. 

Behold  him,  as  with  bent  form  and  down-cast  eye  he 
treads  the  narrow  path  that  leads  to  the  loved  ones  of 
his  bosom,  over  whom  a  cloud  of  fierce  anger  is 
darkly  gathering.  Hear  him,  as  he  sighs  in  agony  of 
soul. 

"  O  God,  Jehovah,  deliver  me  from  mine  enemies. 
They  that  seek  after  my  life  lay  snares  for  me,  and 
they  that  seek  my  hurt,  speak  mischievous  things,  and 
imagine  deceits  all  the  day  long.  O  God,  my  God, 
how  long  shall  mine  enemies  prosper — how  long  shall 
they  who  seek  my  ruin  triumph  ?  My  ways  are  all 
known  to  thee.  Thine  eye  takes  notice  of  them  all. 
And  thou,  O  Father,  knowest  I  am  innocent  of  those 
sins  they  wickedly  lay  to  my  charge.  Shall  I  be  put 
to  an  open  shame  ?  Shall  disgrace  come  upon  my 
poor  wife  and  children  and  their  name  be  cast  out  as 
evil  ?  Unless  thou  come  to  my  help,  O  God,  my  foes 
will  sweep  me  from  the  earth.  Vain  is  the  help  of 
man.  Unless  thou  interpose  to  save  me,  my  life  shall 
be  swallowed  up.  My  way  is  dark  before  me ;  my 
strength  faileth.  I  perish  without  thee." 

Thus  did  Bunyan  cry  unto  God  for  succor,  as  he  trod 


356  MARY    BUNYAN. 

his  dreary  way  homeward  from  Bedford.  Never 
before  had  the  world  seemed  so  dark  to  him.  "  He 
looked,  and  there  was  no  one  to  pity ;  he  cried  and 
there  was  no  one  to  help."  How  should  he  escape  the 
snares  they  had  laid  for  him  ?  Suppose  Agnes  should 
implicate  him  ?  "What  if  Satan  should  tempt  her  to 
lay  the  crime  at  his  door.  Could  she  have  had  designs 
upon  him,  on  Saturday,  when  she  insisted  so  earnestly 
on  riding  behind  him  to  Gamlingay  ?  And  did  she 
really  poison  her  poor  old  father?  Surely,  Agnes 
would  not  do  this.  He  had  known  her  since  she  was  a 
child — a  baby  on  her  mother's  knee,  for  she  was 
younger  than  his  Mary  ;  he,  too,  had  listened  to  her 
account  of  her  passing  from  the  reign  of  sin  and  Satan 
into  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  children  of  God,  and 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken  with  respect  to 
the  truth  of  her  change.  Nor  could  he  believe  that 
God  would  suffer  one  of  his  children  thus  to  fall. 
Then  he  thought  of  David  and  his  grievous  sin,  and 
then  looked  in  upon  his  own  heart,  and  remembered 
his  many  sore  temptations  and  his  weakness ;  and 
when  he  recalled  all  these,  he  felt  afraid,  Jest  this  great 
evil  had  overtaken  the  poor  girl.  And  if  she  could  do 
this,  would  she  not  accuse  him  as  her  instigator,  in 
order  to  escape  punishment  herself? 

Then  there  arose  before  his  vivid  imagination  the 
shameful  trial,  the  prison,  and  the  gibbet.  And  then 
the  darker  picture,  of  a  disgraced,  suffering  family. 
And  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  contemplation,  the  scene 
grew  darker  and  darker,  until  his  soul  was  ready  to 
burst  with  agony.  God's  holy  spirit  seemed  to 
forsake  him,  and  he  was  left  for  a  while  to  the  sorest 
temptations. 


BUNYAN'S  GREAT  TKIAL.  357 

Ah,  how  black  was  that  hour !  The  concentrated 
intensity  of  the  Saviour's  suffering,  as  he  hung  on  the 
Cross,  was  that  God  had  forsaken  him.  How  fearful, 
then,  the  moment,  when  poor,  frail  man  feels  that  the 
loving  kindness  of  God  is  clean  gone.  Have  we  not 
need  to  pray  every  hour,  "  Take  not  thy  Holy  Spirit 
from  us." 

Bunyan's  life  seemed  a  rayless  void,  as  he  approached 
his  cottage  home.  No  pleasure  in  the  past,  no  promise 
in  the  future. 

His  Elizabeth  observed  his  changed  appearance,  and 
inquired  its  cause. 

"  You  must  be  sorely  troubled,  my  husband.  I 
have  never  seen  you  look  so  since  you  came  from 
prison." 

The  poor  man  knew  not  what  to  say.  How  could  he 
tell  her  that  lie  was  accused  of  two  of  the  foulest 
crimes  ?  It  would  prostrate  her,  as  it  had  done  him. 
And  yet  how  could  he  keep  it  from  her  ear  ?  She  must 
know  it  in  a  little  while,  and  she  had  better  hear  it 
from  his  own  lips. 

The  two  walked  into  the  close,  that  they  might 
withdraw  from  the  family,  and  there  Bunyan  broke  to 
his  trembling  wife  the  horrid  story.  She  shuddered, 
and  gasped  for  breath,  as  she  listened.  She  felt,  with 
all  the  intensity  of  her  nature,  what  must  be  the  con 
sequences  to  her  dear  husband,  and  herself,  and 
children.  She  believed  her  husband  was  innocent ; 
she  knew  that  he  was.  But  how  was  he  to  prove  it  ? 
And  even  if  he  did  prove  it,  there  would  still  be  many 
ready  to  believe  him  guilty — such  is  the  love  of  some 
minds  for  vice  and  vulgarity. 

She  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break.     She  knew 


MARY   BUNYAN. 

every  tear  and  groan  but  added  to  her  dear  husband's 
already  insupportable  weight  of  sorrow ;  yet  her  heart 
must  burst  if  she  did  not  give  vent  to  her  emotion.  She 
could  not  speak,  she  could  not  think.  She  could  only 
feel,  God  alone  knows  how  deeply.  And,  poor  man, 
what  comfort  could  he  give  ?  He  could  only  assure 
her  of  his  innocence,  and  of  this  she  was  entirely  sat 
isfied. 

Oh,  weight  of  sinking  sorrow !  how  can  the  poor 
human  heart  bear  up  and  not  break  ? 

God  himself  supports,  but  we  are  all  unconscious  of 
his  presence.  He  sees  us  through  the  dark  cloud, 
when  our  darkened  eyes  can  catch  no  glimpse  of  him. 
He  himself  suffers  his  children  to  be  brought  to  these 
extreme  straits,  that  he  may  manifest  his  own  power 
in  rescuing  them  from  death.  He  will  cause  himself 
to  be  known  to  all  the  people,  in  that  he  saves  his 
children  from  the  fire  and  flood  of  persecution. 

"  "We  have  no  helper  but  God,  my  husband,"  said 
the  wife,  as  soon  as  she  could  command  her  voice, 
"  and  if  he  does  not  come  to  save  us,  we  are  lost,  for 
our  enemies  are  set  upon  our  destruction,  and  there 
seems  to  be  no  way  of  escape  for  us." 

Almost  miraculously,  as  is  oftentimes  the  case. 
Bunyan  rose  from  the  depths  of  distress,  into  which  he 
had  been  plunged  by  the  recital  of  Mr.  Wilson,  into 
the  consoler  and  supporter  of  his  wife.  He  must 
plead  the  promises  of  God  that  she  might  be  kept  from 
despair,  and  in  thus  doing,  they  became  his  food  and 
his  strength. 

The  way  for  Christians  to  lose  their  troubles,  is  to 
undertake  with  God  for  another  who  is  distressed  and 
cast  down. 


BUNYAN'S  GBEAT  TRIAL.  359 

"  Let  not  sorrow  overwhelm  you,  my  Elizabeth," 
he  said  to  the  weeping  wife.  God  himself  will  deliver 
us.  He  is  a  sovereign  God,  and  he  stands  pledged  for 
the  safety  of  his  people.  lie  oftentimes  brings  them 
into  deep  waters,  into  mighty  rushing  waters,  that  are 
ready  to  swallow  them  up  ;  but  then  he  verifies  his 
immutable  promise,  '  When  thou  passest  through  the 
waters,  I  will  be  with  thee.'  He  will  always  provide 
a  way  of  escape  for  his  people.  Remember  the 
children  of  Israel,  at  the  Red  Sea.  Who  could  see 
any  help  for  them  ?  And  yet  God  delivered  them 
with  the  right  arm  of  his  power,  and  overthrew  their 
enemies.  He  gave  victory  to  the  armies  of  Israel 
when  they  cried  unto  him.  He  has  never  failed  to 
save  his  people.  And,  you  know,  my  Elizabeth,  he 
has  brought  us  through  wonderful  trials.  Let  us 
trust  his  grace  and  love  to  bring  us  safely  through  this 
strait." 

"  But  how  could  they  be  so  wicked  as  to  lay  this 
thing  to  your  charge  ?" 

"  Mine  enemy  hath  done  it." 

"  Oh,  how  shameful  !  Who  could  be  so  vile  ?  What 
enemy  have  you  that  owes  you  such  a  grudge  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  but  one,  Mr.  Lane,  the  preacher.  If  he 
has  not  done  this  thing,  I  know  not  who  has.  I  can 
not  say  it  is  he.  We  must  wait  patiently,  looking  to 
the  Lord  to  unfold  it,  and  show  me  clear  of  the  hell 
ish  charge." 

"  Oh,  the  wicked  man  !  how  could  he  do  such  a 
shameful  thing  ?" 

"  He  thinks  I  am  in  his  way,  Elizabeth.  I  am  fear 
ful  he  is  proud  and  ambitious,  and  seeks  his  own  good 
more  than  he  does  the  honor  of  Christ.  But  we  must 


360  HART   BUNYAJST. 

wait  until  he  makes  himself  seen.  If  he  has  done  it, 
it  will  be  found  out  on  him.  He  cannot  keep  it  hid 
always.  God  will  bring  it  to  light." 

Thus  did  Bunyan  endeavor  to  console  his  heart-bro 
ken  wife,  by  pointing  her  to  God's  immutable  justice 
and  love.  And  when  they  gathered  that  night  around 
the  altar  of  prayer,  their  faith  began  to  look  upward. 
They  could  cast  their  care  on  Jesus,  for  they  felt  that 
he  cared  for  them. 

"  The  holy  man  of  God  plead  for  grace  to  sustain  him 
under  the  trying  conflict  which  he  saw  was  just  before 
him.  "With  tears  and  groans  he  cried  for  help.  He 
knew  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  no  arm  to  save,  but 
that  of  Jesus  ;  and  to  his  right  arm  he  trusted  to  bring 
salvation,  and  rescue  his  darling  from  the  den  of  lions. 

It  is  a  dark  hour,  anhour  offierce  trial.  "  How  long, 
O  Lord,  how  long?" 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

MR.      WILSON'S    VISIT     TO    BTJNYAN. 

THE  pastor  at  Hitchen,  Mr.  Wilson,  having  heard 
the  reports  against  Bunyan's  character  vouched  for  by 
men  of  seeming  respectability,  determined,  in  his  own 
mind,  to  ride  over  to  Elstow,  to  talk  to  Bunyan  on  the 
subject,  hoping  to  find  out  the  truth  of  the  matter.  He 
felt  a  deep  interest  for  his  friend,  and  a  greater  anxiety 
for  the  cause  of  Christ,  which  was  suffering  because  of 
the  malicious  slander. 

As  he  rode  slowly  along,  and  pondered  the  matter, 
his  fears  increased.  Circumstances  were  dark,  very 
dark,  against  his  brother  minister.  There  seemed  to 
him  great  cause  for  suspicion.  Yet  he  hoped  it  might 
all  prove  false,  and  he  was  too  just  to  condemn  him 
without  a  full  hearing. 

It  was  Thursday  evening,  two  days  after  the  sudden 
and  fearful  death  of  old  Mr.  Beaumont.  That  morning 
Mr.  Wilson  had  met  Farry,  the  lawyer,  at  Baldock 
Fair,  who  had  told  him  the  whole  story,  but  would 
not  give  his  authority,  although  he  asserted  that  it 
was  of  the  most  respectable  character.  He  informed 
Mr.  Wilson  of  the  intention  of  a  few  persons  to  have 
the  body  of  the  old  man  thoroughly  examined  before 
it  was  interred,  repeating  his  opinion,  that  there  was 
no  doubt  about  his  having  been  poisoned  by  his 

[3611  16 


362  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

daughter,  and  that  she  was  prompted  to  do  the  deed 
by  Bunyan. 

"  I  cannot  think  so,  Mr.  Farry,"  said  the  troubled 
man,  as  the  lawyer  concluded  his  remarks.  "There 
must  be  some  mistake  about  it.  I  cannot  believe  that 
Bro.  Bunyan  would  be  guilty  of  such  an  inhuman  act. 
I  have  known  him  ever  since  he  came  out  of  prison, 
and  I  have  always  believed  him  to  be  a  man  of  God." 

"  You  may  rest  assured,  Mr.  "Wilson,"  replied  the 

licious  lawyer,  "  that  the  first  charge  is  true.  I  got 
it  from  one  whose  word  could  not  be  doubted.  And 
as  to  the  circumstances  of  the  old  man's  death,  I  will 
vouch  for  them.  He  died  of  poison.  And  you  your 
self  must  admit  that  it  looks  very  black  against 
preacher  Bunyan.  The  body  is  to  be  examined,  and 
then  the  whole  matter  will  be  decided,  and  the  guilty 
one  will  receive  a  just  reward.  But  I  must  bid  you 
good  evening,  sir  ;  for  I  must  be  off  for  Mr.  Hatfield, 
the  Mayor.  The  old  man's  son  wishes  him  to  come 
out  this  evening  and  examine  the  body.  He  has  his 
suspicions,  though  he  has  never  breathed  them  to  his 
sister,  but  treats  her  very  kindly.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Wilson,  good  morning." 

With  pain  and  sorrow  the  preacher  turned  his  steps 
homeward.  Suppose  it  should  be  decided  that  old  Mr. 
Beaumont  had  met  his  death  by  unfair  means  ;  then 
the  conclusion  from  all  the  premises  must  be,  that 
Bunyan  was  an  accomplice  of  the  daughter.  What 
disgrace  would  such  a  revelation  bring  to  the  cause  of 
Christ !  How  the  enemies  of  truth  and  righteousness 
would  triumph,  and  Zion  mourn  because  of  her 
reproach ! 

He  unbosomed  his  fears  and  distresses  to  his  wife ; 


MB.  WILSON'S  VISIT  TO  BHUTAN.  363 

told  her  of  his  determination  to  go  over  to  Elstow  and 
learn  from  Bunyan  himself  the  truth  of  the  whole 
affair. 

"  I  would  go  to  see  Agnes  first,  but  she  is  in  deep 
trouble,  poor  girl,  and  the  surgeon  will  be  there  this 
evening  to  examine  the  body,  to  see  if  he  can  find  any 
traces  of  poison.  I  will  wait  until  after  that  is  decided 
before  I  go  to  see  the  poor  child. 

With  painful  foreboding,  the  pastor  at  Hitchen  rode 
over  to  see  his  brother  minister.  He  had  confidently 
believed  Bunyan's  innocence  when  the  rumors  first 
reached  his  ear,  and  it  was  not  until  Farry,  the  law 
yer,  had  so  fully  assured  him  that  it  must  be  so,  that 
his  opinion  began  to  be  shaken.  Farry  stood  well  in 
the  community.  He  was  regarded  as  a  clever  man, 
though  somewhat  avaricious  ;  and  so  clearly  did  he  set 
forth  the  guilt  of  the  daughter,  and  the  necessary  par 
ticipation  of  Bunyan,  that  it  was  difficult  to  explain 
the  mystery  without  implicating  him. 

Bunyan  received  the  visitor  with  sad  countenance. 
For  the  last  few  days  these  dreadful  accusations  had 
met  him  at  every  turn.  Neighbor  Harrow  had  just 
left,  after  laying  the  whole  story  before  him  in  its  most 
exaggerated  form.  He  had  declared  his  innocence  and 
his  trust  in  God  to  the  kind  old  neighbor,  who,  in  his 
plain,  artless  manner,  recommended  him  to  the  throne 
of  heavenly  grace. 

The  two  walked  out  into  the  close,  and  seated  them 
selves  on  the  stile,  and,  in  tender  tones  and  gentle 
words,  "Wilson  made  known  to  Bunyan  his  fears 
that  he  must  at  least  be  greatly  injured  by  the  report, 
for  the  evidence,  from  what  he  had  heard,  was  strong 
against  him.  He  then  repeated  Parry's  story. 


364:  MAET  BUNYAN. 

"  God  knows  I  am  innocent  of  these  foul  slanders," 
said  Banyan,  as  his  friend  concluded  his  recital.  "  I 
have  not  misled  that  girl,  nor  did  I  instigate  her  to 
poison  her  father,  if  it  be  true  he  is  poisoned." 

"  Did  she  ride  behind  you  to  Gamlingay,  last  Fri 
day,  to  meeting  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  did  ;  but  it  was  not  my  seeking.  She  had 
no  beast,  and  wanted  very  much  to  go.  I  objected  to 
her  sitting  behind  me,  but  she  made  such  ado  about 
not  going,  that  finally  I  said  she  might  go  behind  me, 
there,  but  I  could  not  bring  her  back.  And  I  told  her 
brother  this,  at  whose  house  I  found  her." 

"  Did  you  meet  any  preacher  on  the  way  ?" 

"  As  I  told  you  the  other  day,  we  met  Lane  just  as 
we  were  entering  the  town's  end.  We  didn't  meet  any 
other." 

"  How  did  he  look  when  ne  saw  you  ?'' 

"  I  did  not  observe  anything  remarkable  in  his  ap 
pearance  at  the  time,  but  since  this  vile  slander  has 
been  told  me,  I  now  think  he  appeared  well  pleased, 
and  laughed  as  he  spoke." 

"  Was  the  girl  riding  with  both  arms  around  you, 
and  were  her  brother  and  sister  far  before  ?" 

"  !N"o,  the  girl  never  put  her  arms  around  me  ;  she 
only  held  on  to  my  cloak,  and  when  the  road  was 
good  she  did  not  hold  on  at  all.  And  what  they  say 
about  her  brother  and  his  wife  being  far  before,  is 
false.  They  were  right  by  rny  side,  for  I  said  to  them, 
just  after  Lane  had  passed,  that  he  seemed  to  be  in 
most  excellent  humor,  and  I  had  heard  he  was  a  forci 
ble  speaker.  The  woman  said  she  did  not  like  his  looks, 
and  she  had  never  heard  him  in  service.  I  remember 


MK.    WILSON'S   VISIT  TO   BUNYAIST.  36i> 

these  things  distinctly,  and  Agnes'  brother  and  sister 
know  them  to  be  true." 

"  And  when  did  you  see  her  before  ?'' 

"  ~Not  since  I  preached  with  you  at  Hitchen,  last 
August.  I  used  to  go  frequently  to  her  brother's,  and 
sometimes  I  would  call  at  her  father's,  as  I  passed  to 
and  fro  ;  but  Farry,  the  lawyer,  has  taken  a  grudge  to 
me.  and  he  filled  up  the  poor  old  man's  mind  with  preju 
dices  against  me,  until  I  could  not  go  any  longer,  per 
ceiving  my  visits  were  not  pleasant." 

"  But  suppose  they  should  conclude  that  the  old  man 
was  poisoned,  and  Agnes  did  it,  what  explanation  will 
you  make  then  that  will  clear  you  of  this  infamous  ac 
cusation  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  my  dear  brother,  that  things 
are  dark,  very  dark.  But  if  you  are  innocent,  and  I 
hope  you  are,  God  '  will  bring  forth  thy  righteousness 
as  the  light  and  thy  judgment  as  the  noonday ;'  thy 
enemies  shall  see  it,  and  be  confounded." 

"  I  am  innocent,  that  God  knoweth,  and  I  look  to  him 
to  deliver  me.  He  hath  hedged  me  in  ;  He  hath  af 
flicted  my  soul ;  He  hath  torn  me  in  pieces.  But  I 
know  that  his  promises  are  sure.  I  know  that  he  loves 
his  Israel,  and  though  he  sorely  chastiseth  me,  yet 
shall  I  not  be  destroyed  ;  though  he  slay  me,  yet  will 
I  trust  him,  for  his  loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy 
can  never  fail  towards  the  people  of  his  choice." 

"  It  is  good  to  have  such  faith,  Bro.  Bunyan.  I  am 
made  glad  to  see  you  feed  on  the  precious  promises.  If 
Christ  is  for  you,  who  shall  triumph  against  you  ? 
Hold  to  your  integrity,  and  you  shall  never  be  ruined. 
And  rest  assured,  my  brother,  I  will  give  you  all  the 
aid  and  comfort  I  can  ;  and  if  it  should  be  found  that 
the  poor  girl  has  been  guilty  of  murdering  her  father, 


366  MARY   BUNYAN. 

I  will  use  all  endeavors  to  show  that  you  had  no  part 
in  the  matter.  But  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear  brother, 
that  it  will  go  far  to  bring  trouble  to  you." 

"  I  have  an  understanding  of  this  matter.  I  know  I 
must  suffer  for  a  time,  even  if  this  poor  creature  is 
found  clear ;  but  if  I  suffer  for  righteousness'  sake,  I 
must  take  it  gladly.  My  heart  has  been  well  nigh 
torn  in  twain  to  think  of  bringing  infamy  on  my  wife 
and  children ;  but  thanks  be  to  God,  I  have  gained 
somewhat  of  a  victory  over  my  fears.  This  morning, 
while  in  prayer,  Christ  came  to  me  in  his  precious 
promises,  and  strengthened  me  by  his  might,  until  I 
can  now  say,  I  will  not  fear  what  man  can  do  unto  me. 
'  In  all  their  afflictions  he  was  afflicted.'  Christ  did 
not  forget  the  purchase  of  his  blood,  neither  will  he 
suffer  them  to  be  put  to  an  open  shame." 

"  It  rejoices  my  heart,  Bro.  Bunyan,  to  see  you  so 
built  up  in  the  gospel.  Oh,  the  strengthening  grace 
of  Almighty  God  !  How  it  enables  us  to  rise  above 
the  afflictions  of  this  life,  and  to  bask  in  the  glories  of 
that  which  is  to  come !  I  came  to  you  with  a 
burdened  heart.  I  was  weak,  and  I  feared  that  per 
haps,  you  had  sinned.  But  thank  God,  thank  God,  I 
now  know  you  are  guiltless  of  this  great  transgression  ! 
And  I  shall  pray  for  you,"  he  added,  while  the  tears 
streamed  down  his  cheeks  ;  "  pray  God  he  will  support 
you,  and  deliver  you  from  those  that  set  snares  for 
your  feet." 

The  two  brethren  embraced  each  other,  then  knelt 
and  prayed. 

"  To-morrow  I  will  see  Agnes,  and  hear  from  her 
the  whole  story;  and  I  will  come  and  tell  you  the 
result  of  the  examination.  If  it  is  found  that  she  has 


MB.  WILSON'S  VISIT  TO  BUNYAN.  367 

been  wrongfully  accused,  then  will  your  innocence  be 
proven  by  hers.  But  if  she  should  be  found  guilty, 
then,  my  brother,  we  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst. 
Good  bye.  God  bless  you,  and  enable  you  and  sister 
Bunyan  to  trust  him,  never  faltering." 


CHAPTER      XXXV. 

THE       EXAMINATION. 

THE  town  of  Edwortli  was  in  a  state  of  greatest 
excitement,  as  the  Mayor,  accompanied  by  two  or 
three  friends,  departed  to  examine  the  body  of  old  Mr . 
Beaumont.  All  business  was  forgotten ;  all  other 
topics  swallowed  up  in  this  one.  Never  had  there 
been  anything  so  momentous  before  the  rninds  of  the 
villagers  since  poor  old  Mr.  Deckworth  had  drowned 
himself  in  a  small  stream  hard  by,  some  twenty  years 
before. 

"  Trifles  light  as  air"  were  now  "  confirmation  strong 
as  words  of  Holy  writ"  against  the  accused  ones. 
Each  one  could  remember  something  that  he  or  she 
had  seen  or  heard,  which  was  brought  forward  to  show 
the  certainty  of  their  guilt. 

He  had  died  very  suddenly,  and  under  very  pecu 
liar  circumstances.  Humor  with  her  thousand  tongues, 
caught  up  the  story,  and  now  it  was  everywhere 
asserted  as  a  fact  beyond  all  doubt,  that  he  was 
poisoned  by  his  daughter,  Agnes,  and  that  preacher 
Banyan  had  instigated  her  to  do  it,  and  had  furnished 
her  with  the  poison.  What  food  for  the  vicious  appe 
tites  of  the  preacher's  enemies  !  They  caught  up  the 
tale,  and  with  trumpet-tongue  sent  it  through  the  land. 

[3081 


THE  -EXAMINATION.  S69 

"  I  must  rest  in  my  innocence,"  said  Banyan,  as  one 
and  another  asked  him  what  he  would  do.  God 
knows  I  never  dreamed  of  this  wicked  deed  they  lay 
to  my  charge." 

Wrapped  in  the  twilight  gloom,  Lane  sat  alone  in 
his  study,  musing  over  the  success  of  his  plan.  Could 
any  one  have  beheld  him,  they  would  have  seen  a 
wilder  intensity  of  the  eye  than  was  even  his  wont, 
and  a  smile  of  Satanic  enjoyment  playing  over  his 
skinny  face. 

"  I  shall  be  revenged.  To-morrow  it  will  all  be 
known,"  said  Farry,  aloud,  as  he  rode  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening  toward  Lane's.  "  Little  did  I  think,  two 
years  ago,  when  that  proud  creature  refused  my 
offered  hand,  that  I  should  so  soon  have  it  in  my 
power  to  revenge  myself.  '  Revenge  is  sweet,' "  he 
said,  while  his  face  assumed  a  demoniacal  expression. 
"  The  surgeon's  engaged,  and  he  will  do  a  sure  work. 
The  plan  is  sure.  To-morrow  ! — oh,  to-morrow  !" 

"  It  looks  well !  ha,  ha,  ha !  Caught  at  last ! 
He'll  not  trouble  me  again.  '  How  is  the  mighty 
brought  low  !' "  he  muttered,  using  words  of  Holy 
"Writ  to  express  his  fiendish  delight.  "  I  thought  I 
would  bring  the  soaring  eagle  down  !  He  is  dashed 
to  the  ground,  where  he  will  become  a  dead,  stinking 
carcass  !  And  he  will  not  know  the  archer  that  stop 
ped  his-  upward  flight !  ah,  no  !  I  have  managed  well ! 
I  have  got  Farry  between  me  and  danger.  I  have 
played  a  bold  game.  I  have  run  a  great  risk.  But  it 
is  successful.  I  am  winner  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

And  the  wretched  man,  gloating  in  the  thought  of 
the  destruction  of  the  victim  of  his  envy  and  iealousy 

16* 


370  MARY   BUNYAN. 

stroked    his    hands    rapidly   through    his    thin   hair. 
Springing  to  his  feet,  he  strode  the  room  hurriedly. 

The  surgeon  who  was  called  made  his  examination 
of  the  body  carefully,  and  with  evident  design  to 
detect  poison,  if  any  lurked  there.  Not  that  he  had 
any  desire  to  implicate  the  poor  girl,  but  there  was  an 
agreement  between  him  and  Farry,  in  which  the  law 
yer  promised  to  reward  him  handsomely  if  he  would 
be  the  means  of  bringing  the  murderers  (as  he  denom 
inated  Agnes  and  Bunyan)  to  justice.  He  applied  all 
his  tests,  and  observed  with  the  greatest  minuteness 
the  result  of  each.  But  no  evidence  of  poison  was  to 
be  found  ;  and  such  was  his  decision. 

"When  the  report  was  made  to  Farry,  he  burst  into  a 
paroxysm  of  rage,  declaring,  "  the  scoundrel  had  not 
done  his  duty.  He  knew  the  old  man  had  come  to  his 
end  by  foul  means.  All  the  neighbors  knew  it.  And 
the  law  should  not  be  cheated  in  that  way.  He  would 
have  a  coroner  and  jury  the  next  day.  That  body 
should  never  be  buried  until  the  truth  was  brought  to 
light.  The  wretches  should  be  exposed." 

Thus  he  raved  and  railed,  as  he  strode  across  the 
floor  of  Lane's  study . 

The  two  held  a  consultation.  Farry  immediately 
left  to  execute  their  purpose.  He  never  rested  until 
the  Coroner  and  jury  were  made  acquainted  with  his 
story,  and  the  necessary  steps  taken  towards  a  second 
examination  on  the  morrow. 

The  morrow  was  Friday.  The  morning  came.  At 
an  early  hour  the  Coroner  and  jury  left  Gamlingay, 
and  arrived  at  the  house  where  the  corpse  lay.  The 
prosecutor  did  not  make  his  appearance.  He  had 
stationed  himself  at  the  nearest  house  in  the  neighbor- 


THE    EXAMINATION.  871 

hood,  that  he  might  readily  learn  the  result  of  the 
inquest.  The  Coroner  and  jury  entered  the  house. 

Reside  the  fire,  surrounded  by  some  Chrstian  friends, 
who  had  come  out  from  Gamlingay  to  pray  with  and 
comfort  her  in  this  her  hour  of  anguish,  sat  the  victim 
of  Parry's  revenge — her  heart  stayed  on  God,  and  her 
countenance  lighted  up  with  that  peace  which  passeth 
understanding.  Who  knows  but  that  God  may  permit 
the  devil  and  his  tools  to  triumph  ?  Suppose  she 
should  be  called  upon  to  pass  through  fire  ?  Ah ! 
should  she  ?  How  fearful  the  thought,  as  it  rushes 
through  her  heart !  Bat  she  stills  her  rising  fears- 
"  When  thou  passest  through  the  fire,  I  will  be  with 
thee."  It  is  enough.  She  can  rest  on  that  sure  prom 
ise,  and  dread  no  harm. 

The  Coroner  approaches  her  to  question  her  respect 
ing  her  presence  in  the  house  at  the  time  of  her  father's 
death.  Calmly  and  uublanchingly  she  answers  all 
interrogatories. 

The  men  look  hard  upon  her,  and  pass  on  to  the 
back  room,  where  the  corpse  lay.  She  trembles  not. 
Besting  on  the  arm  of  her  Eternal  Father,  she  feels 
secure.  She  alone,  of  all  the  company  present,  is  calm. 
Sighs  burst  from  melting  bosoms,  and  tears  course 
down  from  eyes  all  unused  to  weep.  Looks  of  fearful 
dread  are  exchanged,  and  glances  full  of  pity  and 
sympathy  fell  on  the  sweet  countenance  of  Agnes, 
which  as  they  witness  her  composure  are  changed  to 
looks  of  wonder. 

The  Coroner  and  jury  gather  round  the  dead  body. 
The  pall  is  removed.  There  rests  the  form  of  him 
they  have  all  known  for  years,  whose  face  in  death 
bore  the  livid  hue  of  strangulation.  Why  shake  their 


372  MAKY  BUNYAN. 

heads  ?  There  has  been  foul  play  they  think.  The 
windows  are  opened  for  better  light,  and  the  examina 
tion  is  begun.  Carefully  and  slowly  they  proceed 
from  point  to  point,  from  test  to  test.  Their  fears  and 
doubts  vanish.  Their  work  completed,  they  pass 
through  the  room  and  go  out.  Not  a  word  is  spoken. 
But  hearts  beat  high  with  throbbing  fears  as  they  move 
slowly  along.  Each  one  is  anxious  to  ask,  but  no  one 
dares. 

Agnes  is  sent  for.  The  Coroner  administers  the 
oath  and  commences  to  question  her.  Firm  in  the 
strength  of  the  Lord,  and  supported  by  his  grace,  she 
responds  clearly,  and  without  the  least  hesitation  to 
every  question.  She  confronts  her  accuser,  who  has 
been  sent  for  to  answer  for  the  charge,  without  the 
least  trepidation. 

After  this  is  done,  she  retires,  and  they  proceed  to 
return  a  verdict.  Their  friends  wait  for  it  with  longing, 
fearful  hearts.  At  last  it  comes. 

"  Not  guilty."  The  sound  is  caught  up,  and  passes 
from  lip  to  lip.  "  Thank  God,  thank  God  I"  bursts 
from  many  a  relieved  bosom.  The  noble  girl  is  as  un 
moved  under  the  acquittal  as  she  had  been  under  the 
accusation.  She  had  trusted  to  God  to  bring  forth  her 
innocence,  and  he  had  signally  done  it. 

Her  false  accuser  skulks  away  from  the  presence  of 
honorable  men,  the  fires  of  revenge  burning  the  more 
intensely  in  his  bosom  because  of  his  defeat. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

AGNES    BEAUMONT'S   STORY  AS   TOLD   TO    HER 
PASTOR. 

MB.  "Wilson  attended  the  burial.  He  asked  of  Ag 
nes  a  candid  recital  of  the  truth  of  the  dreadful  story 
which  he  had  heard  against  her. 

"  Tell  me,  child,  the  truth,  that  I  may  be  able  to  re 
fute  the  base  slander.  Begin  at  the  beginning  and 
give  me  the  detail." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all.  And  to  the  truth  of  the  most 
of  it,  my  brother  here  can  bear  witness.  He  saw  and 
heard  much  that  occurred  between  me  and  my  dear 
father." 

"  This  day  week  ago,  you  know  church  meeting  took 
place  at  Gamlingay.  About  a  week  before  I  was  much 
in  prayer,  especially  for  two  things.  One  was  that  the 
Lord  would  incline  the  heart  of  my  father  to  let  me 
go,  the  other  request  was  that  the  Lord  would  go  with 
me,  and  that  I  might  enjoy  much  of  his  presence  at 
the  table  ;  that  as  in  many  times  past  it  might  be  a 
sealing  ordinance  to  my  soul. 

k'  The  Lord  was  pleased  to  grant  me  my  requests. 
Upon  asking  my  father  the  day  before,  he  seemed  un 
willing  at  first,  but  I  plead  with  him,  and  told  him  I 
would  do  all  the  work  in  the  morning  before  I  went, 
and  would  return  home  at  night.  Finally  my  father 


374:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

consented.  Friday  being  come,  I  prepared  everything 
to  set  out.  My  father  inquired  who  carried  me  ?  I 
told  him  I  thought  Mr.  Wilson  of  Hitchen,  as  he  told 
my  brother  the  Tuesday  before  he  should  call.  My 
father  answered  nothing. 

"  I  went  to  my  brother's  and  waited,  expecting  to 
meet  you  there,  but  you  did  not  come,  and  it  cut  me  to 
the  heart,  for  I  feared  I  should  not  go,  and  I  burst  into 
tears,  for  my  brother  had  told  me  his  horses  were  all 
at  work  and  that  he  could  not  spare  one  save  the  two 
that  he  and  my  sister  were  to  ride  on,  and  I  could  not 
walk  thither  the  snow  was  so  deep. 

"  And  what  did  you  do,  Agnes  ?"  inquired  the  old 
pastor,  touched  with  her  simple  story. 

"  I  waited  with  many  a  longing  look  and  with  a  sor 
rowful  heart.  Oh,  thought  I,  that  the  Lord  would  put 
it  in  the  heart  of  some  person  to  come  this  way.  Thus 
I  still  waited  with  my  heart  full  of  fears.  At  last,  quite 
unexpected,  Bro.  Bunyan  came.  The  sight  of  him 
caused  a  mixture  of  both  joy  and  grief.  I  was  glad  to 
see  him,  but  afraid  he  would  not  be  willing  to  take  me 
up  behind  him  ;  and  how  to  ask  him  I  knew  not.  At 
length  I  desired  my  brother  to  do  it,  which  he  did. 
But  when  brother  asked  him,  Mr.  Bunyan  answered, 
roughly,  '  "No.  I  will  not  carry  her.' 

"  These  words  were  cutting  to  my  heart  and  made 
me  weep  bitterly.  My  brother,  seeing  my  trouble, 
said  to  him,  'Sir,  if  you  do  not  carry  her  you  will 
break  her  heart.'  But  he  answered,  '  I  will  not  carry 
her.  Your  father  will  be  grievous  angry  if  I  should.' 

"  I  will  venture  that,  said  I. 

"  At  length  after  much  entreaty,  he  was  prevailed 
upon  to  take  me.  Soon  after  we  set  out  my  father 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STORY.  375 

came  to  my  brother's  and  asked  the  men  whom  I  rode 
behind.  They  said  Mr.  Bunyan.  When  my  father 
heard  this  his  anger  was  greatly  inflamed.  He  run 
down  the  close  thinking  to  overtake  me  and  pull  me 
off  the  horse,  but  we  were  gone  out  of  his  reach.  I 
had  not  rode  far  before  my  heart  began  to  be  lifted  up 
with  pride  at  the  thought  of  riding  behind  this  ser 
vant  of  the  Lord  ;  and  I  was  pleased  if  any  one  looked 
after  us  as  we  rode  along. 

But  my  pride  soon  had  a  fall,  for  on  entering  Gam- 
lingay  we  were  met  by  Mr.  Lane,  who  knew  us  both. 
He  looked  at  us  very  hard  as  we  rode  along.  And  I 
do  believe  he  raised  this  vile  scandal,  though  God 
knows  it  is  false." 

"  And  did  Bro.  Bunyan  bring  you  home  ?  Agnes  ?" 
"  Oh,  no  sir  !     That  brother,  here,  very  well  knows." 
"]S"o,    she   did   not  return   behind   him,   but  rode 
behind  a  girl  who  lives  half  a  mile  from  father's." 

"And  how  did  you  get  from  there  home  ?  Did  you 
see  Bro.  Bunyan  again  that  day  ?" 

"  'No  sir,  I  did  not  see  him  again  till  Sunday,  for  I 
did  not  go  to  meeting  on  Saturday.  The  girl  set  me 
down  at  Sister  Pruden's  gate,  from  whence  I  hastened 
home  through  the  dirt,  having  no  pattens,  hoping  to 
be  at  home  before  my  father  was  in  bed.  On  coming 
to  the  door  I  found  it  locked,  with  the  key  in  it. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  house,  and  my  heart  began 
to  sink,  for  I  perceived  what  I  was  about  to  meet  with. 
It  was  usual  for  my  father  to  take  the  key  out  of  the 
door  and  give  it  me  from  the  window.  I  stood  tremb 
ling.  At  length  I  called  out '  Father,  father.'  '  "Who's 
there  ?'  he  answered.  I  said,  '  It  is  I,  father,  come 
home  wet  and  dirty.  Pray  let  me  in.' 


376  MAKY   BUiNYAK. 

"  '  I'll  not  let  you  in,'  he  said  harshly.  Where  you 
have  been  all  day,  you  may  go  at  night.  A  pretty 
hussy,  indeed,  to  ride  behind  that  man  Bunyan.  You 
knew  well  enough  it  was  against  my  will  for  you  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  vile  tinker.  How  did 
you  dare  to'  disobey  me.  Let  you  in,  indeed.  You 
shall  never  come  within  these  doors  any  more  unless 
you  will  promise  me  never  to  go  after  that  man  again.' 
I  begged,  and  cried,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  let  me 
in. 

"  '  Begone,  I  tell  you,  unless  you'll  promise  me  you'll 
never  have  anything  to  say  to  that  wretch.  Begone, 
or  I'll  rise  and  put  you  out  of  the  yard.  Do  you  hear 
me?' 

"  I  then  stood  silent  awhile,  and  the  thought  pierced 
my  mind,  what  if  I  should  come  at  last,  and  the  door 
be  shut,  and  Christ  should  say  unto  me" '  Depart.' 

At  length,  seeing  my  father  refused  to  let  me  in,  it 
was  put  into  my  heart  to  spend  that  night  in  prayer.  I 
would  have  gone  to  my  brother's  where  I  could  have 
had  a  good  supper  and  a  warm  bed.  No,  thought  I,  I 
will  go  into  the  barn,  and  cry  to  heaven  that  Jesus 
Christ  would  not  shut  me  out  at  the  last  day,  and  also 
that  I  might  have  some  fresh  discoveries  of  love  to  my 
soul.  I  am  naturally  of  a  timorous  temper,  and  many 
frightful  things  presented  themselves  to  my  mind,  as 
that  I  might  be  murdered  before  morning,  or  catch  my 
death  of  cold.  Yet  one  scripture  after  another  gave 
me  encouragement.  These  came  into  my  mind : 
'  Pray  to  thy  Father  which  is  in  secret,  and  thy  Father 
who  seeth  in  secret  shall  reward  thee  openly.'  '  Call 
upon  me  and  I  will  answer  thee,  and  show  the  great 
and  mighty  things  which  thou  knowest  not.' ' 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STOKT.  377 

"  And  did  you  indeed  pass  the  night  in  the  barn, 
Agnes,  that  cold,  bitter  night  ?" 

"  I  did  sir,  truly.  No  sooner  was  I  in  the  barn  than 
Satan  again  assaulted  me.  But  having  received 
strength  from  the  Lord,  and  his  word,  I  spoke  out  say 
ing,  '  Satan,  my  father  hath  thee  in  a  chain  ;  thou 
can'st  not  hurt  me.'  The  Lord,  after  this,  was  pleased 
to  keep  all  my  fears  from  my  heart.  He  was  with  me 
in  a  most  wonderful  manner.  It  froze  hard  that  night, 
but  I  felt  no  cold,  although  the  dirt  was  frozen  on  my 
shoes  in  the  morning. 

"  While  I  was  engaged  in  prayer  and  meditation  in 
the  barn,  that  scripture  came  with  mighty  power  on 
my  mind,  'Beloved,  think  it  not  strange  concerning 
the  fiery  trial  which  is  to  try  you.' 

"  When  the  morning  appeared,  I  peeped  through 
the  cracks  of  the  barn  to  watch  my  father's  opening 
the  door.  Presently  he  came  out  and  locked  it  after 
him,  which  I  thought  looked  very  dark,  apprehending 
from  this  that  he  was  resolved  I  should  not  go  in. 
But  still  that  word,  Beloved,  sounded  in  my  heart. 
He  soon  came  into  the  barn  with  a  fork  in  his  hand, 
and  seeing  me  in  my  riding  dress,  he  stood  still  before 
me. 

"  '  Good  morning,  father,'  said  I  pleasantly  to  him. 
*  I  have  had  a  cold  night's  lodging  here,  but  God  has 
been  good  to  me,  else  I  should  have  had  a  worse.' 

" '  It  is  no  matter  for  you,  you  disobedient  girl.' 
1  Will  you  let  me  go  in,  my  father  ?  I  want  to  get  off 
these  dirty  clothes.  I  hope,  father,  you  are  not  still 
angry  with  me.' 

"  '  Begone  out  of  my  sight.  I  will  not  let  you  in ; 
go  and  stay  where  you  were  on  the  yesterday,'  and 


378  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

my  father  went  about  foddering  the  cows.  I  followed 
him  about,  entreating  him  to  forgive  me  and  let  me 
into  the  house.  But  the  more  I  entreated  him,  the 
more  his  anger  rose  against  me. 

"  '  I  tell  you,  hussy,  you  shall  never  enter  my  house 
again  unless  you  will  promise  me  not  to  go  to  meeting 
again  as  long  as  I  live.  Will  you  promise  that  ?' 

"  '  I  cannot  promise  you  that,  father,'  I  said,  gently ; 
*  my  soul  is  of  too  much  worth  to  do  it.  Can  you,  in  my 
stead,  answer  for  me  at  the  great  day  ?  If  so,  I  will 
obey  you  in  this  demand,  as  I  do  in  all  other  things.' 

"  But  my  father  would  not  hear  me,  but  kept  asking 
me  to  say  I  would  never  go  to  meeting  again  as  long 
as  he  lived,  which  I  dared  not  do.  At  last  some  of 
my  brother's  men  were  come  into  the  yard,  and  seeing 
my  case,  reported,  when  they  went  home,  that  their 
old  master  had  turned  Agnes  out  of  doors.  When 
brother  heard  this,  he  came  to  father,  and  endeavored 
to  prevail  with  him  to  become  reconciled  to  me.  But 
father  grew  more  angry  with  him  than  with  me,  and  at 
last  refused  to  listen  to  him.  My  brother  then  said, 
'  Go  home  with  me,  sister,  you  will  catch  your  death 
with  cold.'  But  I  said,  '  No,  brother,  I  will  still  plead 
with  my  father.' 

"  I  continued  to  follow  him  about  the  yard,  taking 
hold  of  his  arm,  and  crying,  and  hanging  about,  saying, 
'  Pray,  let  me  go  in,  father ;  pray,  let  me  go  in.  I  am 
so  cold.'  I  now  wonder  how  I  durst  be  so  bold,  my 
father  being  of  a  hasty  temper,  insomuch  that  his  anger 
has  often  made  me  glad  to  get  out  of  his  sight,  though 
he.  was  a  good-natured  man  when  his  passion  was  over. 
But  I  could  not  prevail,  and  growing  cold  and  faint,  I 
went  and  sat  down  on  the  door-step.  But  my  father 


AGNES  BE^DMONT'S  STOKY.  379 

kept  walking  about  the  yard,  and  I  soon  saw  that  he 
did  not  intend  to  enter  the  house  while  I  was  there. 
And  I  did  not  want  to  keep  him  in  the  cold,  so  I  went 
to  my  brother's  house  and  obtained  some  refreshment 
and  warmth. 

"  About  noon  my  sister  and  I  came  home  to  entreat 
my  father.  We  found  him  in  the  house,  and  the  door 
locked.  "We  went  to  the  window,  to  speak  to  him. 

" '  Now,  father,'  said  my  sister,  '  I  hope  your  anger 
is  over,  and  you  will  let  sister  in.  Do  be  reconciled  to 
her.  She  did  not  wish  to  offend  you.' 

"  '  I  will  not  let  her  in.  She  must  go  where  she  was, 
and  find  some  body  else  to  take  care  of  her.  No  doubt 
that  tinker-preacher,  Bunyan,  will  do  it.  She  shall  not 
have  a  penny  of  mine  as  long  as  I  live,  nor  when  I  die, 
either.  I  would  sooner  leave  my  substance  to  strang 
ers,  than  to  her.  Begone,  begone,  I  tell  you  !  You 
need  not  think  to  win  me  by  your  crying.  Out  of  my 
sight !' 

"  My  sister  durst  not  speak  a  word  more,  my  father 
was  so  mad.  His  threats  were  cutting  and  made  my 
heart  sink.  '  What  will  become  of  me  ?'  I  said,  '  To 
go  to  service  and  work  hard  is  a  new  thing  to  me,  who 
am  very  young.  What  shall  I  do  ?'  Then  these 
words  were  very  seasonable  and  comforting:  'When 
my  father  and  mother  forsake  me,  then  the  Lord  will 
take  me  up.' 

"  Perceiving  my  sister's  strong  pleadings  were  all 
in  vain,  I  asked  my  father  to  give  me  my  Bible  and 
pattens. 

"  You  shall  have  nothing  from  this  house.  You 
shall  not  have  a  penny,  nor  a  penny's  worth,  as  long 


S80  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

as  I  live,  nor  when  I  die.  Get  you  away,  I  tell  you. 
I  won't  listen  to  you.' 

"  I  then  went  home  with  my  sister,  weeping  bitterly, 
and  withdrew  into  her  chamber,  where  the  Lord  gave 
me  hopes  of  a  better  inheritance.  Oh,  now  I  was 
willing  to  go  to  service,  and  to  be  stript  of  all  for 
Christ !  I  saw  that  I  had  a  better  portion  than  that  of 
silver  and  gold,  and  I  \vas  enabled  to  believe  I  should 
never  want. 

"  Towards  night  I  again  felt  inclined  to  go  to  my 
father.  I  concluded  to  go  alone  this  time,  since  he 
was  so  angry  with  my  brother  and  sister.  When  I 
reached  the  door,  I  found  it  partly  open,  and  the  key 
being  on  the  outside,  and  my  father  within,  I  pushed  the 
door  gently,  and  was  about  to  enter,  which  my  father 
perceiving,  ran  hastily  to  shut  it,  and  had  I  not  hastily 
withdrew,  one  of  my  legs  had  been  between  the  door 
and  the  threshold.  I  would  not  be  so  uncivil  as  to 
lock  my  father  in  his  own  house.  But  I  took  the  key, 
intending,  when  he  was  gone,  to  venture  in  and  lie  at 
his  mercy.  After  a  while  he  came  and  looked  behind 
the  house,  and  seeing  me  standing  in  a  narrow  passage 
between  the  house  and  the  pond,  where  I  stood  close 
up  by  the  wall,  he  took  me  by  the  arm,  saying, 
'  Hussy  !  give  me  the  key  quickly,  or  else  I  will  throw 
you  into  the  pond.'  I  immediately  resigned  it  with 
silence  and  sadness.  I  could  not  contend  any  longer 
with  my  father.  He  wras  all  cruelty.  I  went  down  the 
closes  to  a  wood-side,  with  sighs  and  groans,  and  a  heart 
full  of  sorrow,  when  this  scripture  came  again  into  my 
mind  :  *  Call  upon  me,  and  I  will  answer  thee,  and 
show  thee  mighty  things  which  thou  knowest  not.' 
The  night  was  dark,  but  I  kept  on  to  the  wood,  where 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STORY.  381 

I  poured  out  my  soul  in  many  tears.  Then  that  word 
also  greatly  comforted  me  :  '  The  eyes  of  the  Lord  are 
upon  the  righteous,  and  his  ears  are  open  to  their  cry.' 
And  that  was  also  a  wonderful  word  at  this  time  :  '  In 
all  their  afflictions  he  was  afflicted.' 

"  I  staid  so  long  in  this  place  that  it  gave  great  con 
cern  to  my  brother  and  sister,  who  had  sent  one  of 
their  men  to  know  if  my  father  had  let  me  in  ;  and 
understanding  that  he  had  not,  they  went  about  seek 
ing  me,  but  could  not  find  me." 

"  And  what  did  you  do,  Agnes  ?"  asked  the  pastor, 
moved  to  tears  by  her  touching  recital. 

"  I  spread  my  case  before  the  Lord,  and  determined 
to  go  to  my  brother's,  for  I  felt  that  I  could  not  yield 
to  my  father's  request,  if  I  begged  my  bread  about  the 
streets.  I  was  so  strongly  fixed  in  my  resolution,  that 
I  thought  nothing  could  move  me.  Yet,  alas !  like 
Peter,  I  was  a  poor,  weak  creature,  as  you  will  pres 
ently  see. 

"  The  next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  said  to 
my  brother  here,  '  Let  us  call  on  father  as  we  go  to 
meeting.'  But  my  brother  said  this  would  only  pro 
voke  him  the  more,  and  we  forbore.  As  we  went 
along  to  meeting,  brother  said  to  me  : 

"  '  Sister,  you  are  now  brought  upon  the  stage  to  act 
for  Christ.  I  pray  God  to  help  you  to  bear  testimony 
for  him.  I  would  by  no  means  have  you  consent  to  my 
father's  terms. 

"  '  ISTo,  brother,'  I  confidently  answered,  '  I  would 
sooner  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door.'  I  felt  that 
nothing  could  move  me  from  my  determination  to  cling 
to  Christ,  let  it  cost  me  what  it  would.  While  I  sat  at 
meeting,  my  mind  was  harried,  considering  my  case. 


382  MAEY   BUNYAN. 

On  our  way  home,  I  proposed  to  my  brother  to  call  on 
our  father.  He  repeated  his  admonition  to  me,  though 
I  felt  1  stood  in  no  need  of  his  counsel  in  this  particu 
lar.  He  talked  to  my  father  mildly,  pleading  with  him 
to  be  reconciled  ;  but  my  father  would  not  hear,  and 
bade  my  brother  to  go  home.  I  told  him  to  go.  '  Not 
without  you.'  I  will  come  presently,  I  said,  and  my 
brother  left. 

"  After  my  brother  was  gone,  I  plead  with  my  father. 
*  Father,'  I  said,  '  I  will  serve  you  in  anything  that  lies 
in  my  power.  I  only  desire  liberty  to  hear  God's  word 
on  his  own  day.  Grant  me  this,  and  I'll  ask  no  more.' 

"  My  father  looked  at  me  hard.  '  Father'  continued 
I,  '  you  cannot  answer  for  my  sins,  or  stand  in  my  stead 
before  God.  I  must  look  to  the  salvation  of  my  own 
soul,  or  be  undone  forever." 

"  '  Promise  me  you  will  never  go  to  a  meeting  again 
as  long  as  I  live,  and  I  will  let  you  in  the  house,  and 
provide  for  you  as  my  own  child.  But  if  you  don't  do 
this,  you  shall  never^have  one  farthing  from  me.' 

"  '  Father,'  said  1,  trembling,  '  I  dare  not  say  so  ;  my 
soul  is  of  more  worth  than  all  else,  and  I  dare  not 
make  you  such  a  promise.' 

"'  Begone,  then,  from  my  sight,  hussy,'  said  he,  his 
rage  greatly  enkindled.  *  Unless  you  promise  me  this, 
I  shall  know  well  enough  what  to  do.  Promise  me 
you  will  never  go  to  meeting  again  while  I  live.  Prom 
ise  me  this,  and  all  shall  be  right.  What  do  you  say  ? 
answer  me  quickly.  "What  do  you  say  ?  If  you 
now  refuse  to  comply,  you  shall  never  be  offered  it 
more,  and  I  am  determined  you  shall  never  come 
within  my  doors  again  as  long  as  you  live.' 

"  I  stood  crying.     Those  terrible  threats  almost  took 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STORY.  383 

my  life.  '  What  do  you  say  hussy  ?'  said  my  father, 
'  do  you  promise  or  not  ?' 

"  At  last  I  answered  ,  'Well, father,  I  will  promise 
you  never  to  go  to  meeting  again  as  long  as  you  live, 
without  your  consent.'  Whereupon  he  gave  me  the 
key,  and  I  went  into  the  house. 

"  In  a  little  time  my  father  came  in,  and  behaved 
with  affection.  He  bid  me  get  him  some  supper,  which 
I  did.  He  also  told  me  to  come  and  eat  with  him,  but 
it  was  a  bitter  supper  to  me.  Now,  thought  I,  I  must 
hear  the  word  no  more. 

"  Monday  came  and  he  still  was  kind  to  me.  He 
told  me  with  tears,  how  much  troubled  he  was  for 
me  the  night  he  shut  me  out  of  doors,  insomuch  that  he 
could  not  sleep  ;  adding,  it  was  my  riding  behind  John 
Bunyan  that  made  him  angry. 

"  The  greatest  part  of  the  next  day  being  Tuesday,  I 
spent  in  weeping  and  prayer,  fearing  I  had  denied 
Christ.  I  humbled  myself  before  the  Lord  for  what  I 
had  done,  and  begged  of  him  that  I  might  be  kept  by 
his  grace  from  denying  him  and  his  ways  for  the  fu 
ture.  And  blessed  be  his  name,  before  night  he 
brought  me  out  of  this  horrible  pit,  and  set  my  feet 
upon  a  rock,  enabling  me  to  believe  the  forgiveness  of 
all  my  sins,  by  sealing  many  precious  promises  home 
on  my  soul." 

"  And  was  this  the  day  your  father  died  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  died  Tuesday  night,  though  he  was  as 
well  all  day  as  usual." 

"  I  am  convinced,  Agnes,  that  you  and  Bro.  Bunyan 
have  been  shamefully  scandalized.  I  see,  now,  there 
is  no  truth  in  the  first  vile  rumor  that  met  my  ear. 
You  are  both  as  innocent  as  babes.  God  help  you  to 


384:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

bear  it,  and  may  he  bring  forth  your  righteousness  like 
the  light,  and  your  judgment  like  the  noonday.  Trust 
in  him.  He  can  never  forsake  thee.  I  am  convinced 
your  sister  is  innocent,"  he  said  to  Agnes'  brother,  who 
had  sat  with  his  face  bathed  in  tears  during  her  plain 
but  touching  story.  "But  tell  me,  poor  child,  if  you 
can,  something  about  your  father's  sickness  and  last 
moments.  Did  he  repent  of  his  sins  ?  I  wish  to  know, 
too,  that  I  may  give  the  truth  when  asked." 

At  the  thought  of  her  father's  death,  the  poor  girl 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  it  was  some  minutes 
before  she  could  sufficiently  regain  her  composure  to 
proceed.  She  finally  calmed  herself  and  proceeded. 

"  My  father  was  as  well  as  usual  that  day,  and  eat 
his  dinner  as  heartily  as  ever  I  knew  him.  He  would 
sometimes  sit  up  by  candle-light  while  I  was  spinning, 
but  he  now  observed  it  was  a  very  cold  night,  and  he 
would  go  to  bed  early.  After  supper  he  smoked  a 
pipe,  and  went  to  bed  seemingly  in  perfect  health. 
But  while  I  was  by  his  bedside  laying  his  clothes  on 
him,  those  words  ran  through  my  mind,  'The  end  is 
come,  the  end  is  come  ;  the  time  draweth  near.'  But 
I  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  them. 

"  As  soon,  therefore,  as  I  quitted  the  room,  I  went 
to  the  throne  of  grace,  where  my  heart  was  wonder 
fully  drawn  forth,  especially  that  the  Lord  would  show 
mercy  to  my  father,  and  save  his  soul,  for  which  I  was 
so  importunate  that  I  could  not  tell  how  to  leave 
pleading ;  and  still  that  word  continued  on  my  mind, 
'  The  end  is  come.'  Another  thing  I  entreated  of  the 
Lord  was,  that  he  would  stand  by  me,  and  be  with  me 
in  whatever  trouble  I  had  to  meet  with,  little  thinking 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STORY.  385 

what  was  coming  upon  me  that  night  and  the  week 
following. 

"  After  this  I  went  to  bed,  thinking  on  the  freedom 
which  God  had  given  me  in  prayer ;  but  had  not  slept 
long  before  I  heard  a  doleful  noise,  which  at  first  1 
apprehended  had  been  in  the  yard,  but  soon  perceived 
it  to  be  my  father.  Being  within  hearing,  I  called  to 
him,  saying,  'Father,  are  you  not  well?'  He  said, 
'  No,  I  was  struck  with  a  pain  in  my  heart  in  my  sleep, 
and  I  shall  die  presently.'  I  immediately  arose,  put 
on  a  few  clothes,  ran  and  lighted  a  candle,  and  coming 
to  him,  found  him  sitting  upright  in  his  bed,  crying  to 
the  Lord  for  mercy,  saying,  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  me, 
for  I  am  a  poor,  miserable  sinner  !  Lord  Jesus,  wash 
me  in  thy  precious  blood !'  &c.  I  stood  trembling  to 
hear  him  in  such  distress,  and  to  see  him  look  so  pale. 
I  then  kneeled  down  by  the  bedside,  and,  which  I  had 
never  done  before,  prayed  with  him,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  join  very  earnestly. 

"  This  done,  I  said,  '  Father,  I  will  go  and  call  some 
body,  for  I  dare  not  stay  with  you  alone.'  He  replied, 
'  You  shall  not  go  out  at  this  time  of  night ;  do  not  be 
afraid,'  still  crying  loud  for  mercy.  Soon  after,  he 
said  he  would  rise  and  put  on  his  clothes  himself.  1 
ran  and  made  a  good  fire,  and  got  him  something  hot, 
hoping  that  it  might  relieve  him.  '  Oh,'  said  he,  '  1 
want  mercy  for  my  soul !  Lord,  show  mercy  to  me, 
for  I  am  a  great  sinner!  if  thou  dost  not  show  me 
mercy,  I  am  undone  forever  !'•  '  Father,'  said  I, '  there 
is  mercy  in  Jesus  Christ  for  sinners ;  the  Lord  help 
you  to  lay  hold  on  it.'  '  Oh,'  replied  he,  '  I  have  been 
against  you  for  seeking  after  Jesus  Christ ;  Lord,  for 
give  me,  and  lay  not  this  sin  to  my  charge  !' 

17 


386  MARY   BUNYA3T. 

"  I  desired  him  to  drink  something  warm,  which  I 
had  for  him ;  but  his  trying  to  drink  brought  on  a 
violent  retching,  and  he  changed  black  in  the  face.  I 
stood  by,  holding  his  head,  and  he  leaned  upon  me 
with  all  his  weight.  Dreadful  time,  indeed  !  If  I  left 
him,  I  was  afraid  he  would  fall  into  the  fire  ;  and  if  I 
stood  by  him,  he  would  die  in  my  arms,  and  no  one 
person  near  us.  I  cried  out, '  What  shall  I  do  !  Lord, 
help  me  !'  Then  came  that  scripture,  Isa.  41 ;  10, 
'  Fear  thou  not,  for  I  am  with  thee ;  be  not  dismayed, 
I  am  thy  God ;  I  will  help  thee,  yea,  I  will  uphold 
thee,'  &c. 

"  By  this  time  my  father  revived  again  out  of  his  fit 
of  fainting,  for  I  think  lie  did  not  quite  swoon  away  ; 
he  repeated  his  cries  as  before, '  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man  !  Lord  spare  me  one  week 
more  !  one  day  more !'  Piercing  words  to  me  !  After 
he  had  sat  awhile,  he  felt  an  uneasiness  in  his  bowels, 
and  called  for  a  candle  to  go  into  the  other  room.  I 
saw  him  stagger  as  he  went  over  the  threshold  ;  and 
making  a  better  fire,  soon  followed  him,  and  found 
him  on  the  floor,  which  occasioned  me  to  scream  out, 
'  Father,  father !'  putting  my  hands  under  his  arms, 
lifting  with  all  my  might,  first  by  one  arm,  then  by 
another,  crying  and  striving  till  my  strength  was  quite 
spent. 

"  I  continued  lifting  till  I  could  perceive  no  life  in 
him,  and  then  ran  crying  about  the  house,  and 
unlocked  the  door  to  go  and  call  my  brother.  It  being 
the  dead  of  night,  and  no  house  near,  I  thought  there 
might  be  rogues  at  the  door,  who  would  murder  me. 
At  last  I  opened  the  door  and  rushed  out.  It  had 
snowed  in  abundance,  and  lay  very  deep. '  Having  no 


AGNES  BEAUMONT'S  STORY.  387 

stockings  on,  the  snow  got  in  my  shoes,  so  that  1  made 
little  progress,  and  at  the  stile,  in  my  father's  yard, 
stood  calling  to  my  brother,  not  considering  it  was 
impossible  for  any  one  to  hear.  I  then  got  over,  and 
the  snow-water  caused  my  shoes  to  come  off,  and 
running  barefoot  to  the  middle  of  the  close,  I  suddenly 
imagined  rogues  were  behind  me,  going  to  kill  me. 
Looking  back  in  terror,  these  words  came  into  my 
mind,  '  The  angel  of  the  Lord  encompasseth  round 
about  those  who  fear  him  ;'  which  somewhat  relieved 
me. 

"  Coining  to  my  brother's,  I  stood  crying  dismally 
under  the  window,  to  the  terror  of  the  whole  family, 
who  were  in  their  midnight  sleep..  My  brother  started 
from  bed,  and  called  from  the  window,  '  Who  are  you  ? 
What's  the  matter  ?'  '  O  brother,'  said  I,  '  my  father 
is  dead  ;  come  away  quickly  !'  '  O  wife,'  said  he,  '  it 
is  my  poor  sister ;  my  father  is  dead !'  My  brother 
ran  immediately  with  two  of  his  men,  and  found  our 
father  risen  from  the  ground,  and  laid  upon  the  bed. 
My  brother  spoke  to  him.  but  he  could  not  answer, 
except  one  word  or  two.  On  my  return,  they  desired 
me  not  to  go  into  the  room,  saying  he  was  just  depart 
ing.  Oh,  dismal  night !  Had  not  the  Lord  wonder 
fully  supported  me,  I  must  have  died,  too,  of  the  fears 
and  frights  which  I  met  with. 

"My  brother's  man  soon  came  out,  and  said  he  was 
departed.  Melancholy  tidings  !  But  in  the  midst  of 
my  trouble  I  had  a  secret  hope  that  he  was  gone  to 
heaven ;  nevertheless,  I  sat  crying  bitterly,  to  think 
what  a  sudden  and  surprising  change  death  had  made 
on  my  father,  who  went  to  bed  well,  and  was  in  eter 
nity  by  midnight ! 


388  MART   BUNYAN. 

"The  rest  you  know,  sir.  Fray  God  that  I  may 
have  grace  to  do  his  will — to  bear  this  hardness  as  a 
good  soldier  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  O  Mr.  Wilson, 
pray  for  me,  and  for  him  they  have  so  falsely  accused. 
He  is  as  guiltless  as  I  am.  God  knows  he  had  not 
seen  my  poor  father  in  months,  and  he  never  said  a 
word  to  me  about  him  as  he  went  to  Gamlingay." 

The  old  man  was  convinced.  He  knelt  and  prayed 
with  the  sorrowing  brother  and  sister,  commending 
them  to  the  all-sufficient  grace  of  God,  and  to  his  care 
and  protection. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

DEATH      OF      CHARLES     II 

IT  was  Sunday  evening,  the  1st  of  February,  1685. 
Charles  and  his  court  are  at  Whitehall,  surrounded  by 
all  the  luxury  and  frivolity  which  ever  characterized 
that  dissolute  sovereign,  and  his  lascivious  courtiers. 
The  scene  was  one  of  unusual  gaiety.  The  claims  of 
the  Sabbath  were  disregarded.  Immortal  beings  had 
forgotten  their  immortality,  -  and  sported  with  their 
eternal  interests  as  lightly  as  with  their  most  trifling 
gewgaws.  The  obligations  of  religion,  of  morals,  yea, 
of  decency,  were  set  aside  that  men  might  indulge, 
even  to  satiety,  vice  and  disgusting  immoralities. 

The  king,  with  many  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
were  gathered  in  the  large  hall  of  the  palace.  Around 
tables,  heaped  writh  gold,  drunken  courtiers  sat  at 
cards.  Strains  of  soft,  amorous  music  were  wafted  on 
the  evening  air.  Hilarity  and  mirth  reigned  uninter 
rupted  throughout  the  palace. 

Suddenly  the  king  complained  of  feeling  unwell. 
A  great  sensation  followed  the  announcement.  But 
as  his  health  had  been  somewhat  feeble  for  the  last  few 
months,  the  consternation  soon  passed  ;  and  while  the 
king,  unable  to  partake  of  supper,  retired  to  rest,  the 
revellers  returned  to  their  sports.  That  night  he  slept 

[389] 


390  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

but  little,  but  as  was  his  wont,  lie  rose  early  the  fol 
lowing  morning.  Scarcely,  however,  was  he  risen  from 
his  bed,  before  his  attendants  observed  something  very 
unusual  in  his  appearance.  His  eyes  had  a  wild  strange 
expression,  and  when  he  strove  to  speak,  it  was  found 
his  words  were  incoherent  and  his  ideas  disconnected. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  soon  spread  throughout 
the  palace.  As  was  the  custom  in  that  day,  several 
persons  of  rank  had  assembled  to  witness  the  king's 
morning  toilet.  They  observed  with  frightful  fear  the 
changed  manner  of  the  monarch,  who,  seemingly  un 
conscious  of  his  situation,  was  making  ineffectual  at 
tempts  to  laugh  and  converse  in  his  usual  gay  manner. 
Soon  his  color  changed  ;  his  face  grew  black,  his  eyes 
assumed  a  fixed  look.  He  sprung  from  his  seat,  sent 
forth  a  piercing  cry,  staggered,  and  fell.  Fortunately, 
before  reaching  the  floor  he  was  caught  by  the  Earl  of 
Salisbury,  who,  with  others,  bore  him  and  placed  him 
on  a  bed  where  he  lay  insensible.  Medical  aid  was 
summoned.  Bleeding  was  decided  upon  as  the  surest 
relief.  But  it  was  ascertained  there  was  no  lancet 
about  the  palace,  and  the  king's  arm  was  speedily 
opened  with  a  pen-knife.  The  blood  ran  copiously,  but 
Charles  remained  unconscious. 

The  news  of  the  king's  illness  was  speedily 
borne  from  tongue  to  tongue,  until  it  filled  the  city. 
All  classes  forsook  business,  and  thronged  the  ways  to 
"Whitehall  to  inquire  for  the  sovereign's  health.  So 
great  was  the  rush  that  the  gates,  which  ordinarily 
stood  open  were  compelled  to  be  closed.  Yet  many 
were  admitted  whose  faces  were  familiar  to  those  in 
attendance,  and  soon  the  galleries,  and  halls,  and  cham 
bers,  were  filled  with  anxious  enquirers  for  the  king's 


DEATH   OF  CHARLES   II.  391 

condition.  Physicians  were  called  in  immediately. 
The  King  was  bled  freely  ;  his  head  cauterized  with 
a  red  hot  iron,  and  a  disgusting  salt,  extracted 
from  human  skulls,  was  applied  to  his  nose  and  forced 
into  his  mouth.  These  horrid  remedies  had  the  effect 
of  restoring  the  king  to  consciousness,  but  his  situa 
tion  was  regarded  as  one  of  imminent  peril. 

He  continued  to  improve,  slightly,  up  to  Thursday 
morning,  February  5,  and  the  London  Gazette  announ 
ced  to  eager  thousands  that  the  king  was  deemed  out  of 
danger  by  his  attending  physicians.  The  news  spread 
like  an  electric  shock  through  the  city,  and  the  most 
enthusiastic  demonstrations  of  joy  were  made.  The 
church  bells  were  rung,  loud  acclamations  of  delight 
went  up  from  myriad  tongues,  preparations  were  made 
for  magnificent  bonfires  ;  every  evidence  of  joy  was 
given  that  a  people  idolizing  a  sovereign  could  give. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  it  was  under 
stood  that  the  king  had  grown  worse.  It  was  said  hia 
physicians  had  but  little  hopes  of  his  recovery.  Great 
was  the  consternation  created  by  this  information. 
Sadness  overspread  the  metropolis.  The  idol  of  the 
nation  was  dying. 

The  king  suffered  the  most  horrid  agony.  He  said 
he  felt  as  if  a  fire  was  burning  within  him.  It  was 
frightful  to  witness  his  tortures.  The  queen,  who  had 
watched  him  assiduously,  fainted  at  the  sight  of  his 
sufferings.  Charles  himself  displayed  a  fortitude 
which  was  remarkable. 

He  was  exhorted  to  prepare  for  his  end,  but  he 
seemed  to  give  but  little  heed  to  the  warning.  His 
apathy  with  regard  to  death  was  striking.  At  length 
Archbishop  Sonoroft  spoke  to  him  plainly.  "  It  is  time 


MART   BUNYAN. 


to  speak  out,"  said  he,  addressing  the  king  ;  "  for,  sire, 
you  are  about  to  appear  before  a  Judge  who  is  no  re 
specter  of  persons." 

Tne  king  gave  no  heed  to  the  advice,  but  remained 
unmoved.  The  Bishop  of  Bath  whom  Charles  respec 
ted  above  all  other  prelates,  then  approached  the  bed 
side  of  the  dying  monarch,  and  exhorted  him  to  pre 
pare  for  the  solemn  event  before  him.  His  pathetic 
and  touching  appeals  moved  the  hearts  of  many  who 
heard  him  to  tears  ;  but  his  words  failed  to  affect  the 
king.  v 

His  indifference  to  spiritual  matters  was  alarming 
and  unaccountable.  Some  "  attributed  it  to  contempt 
for  devout  things  ;"  others  "  to  the  stupor  which  often 
precedes  death." 

The  Duchess  of  Portsmouth  was  the  only  one  who 
seemed  to  understand  the  condition  of  the  king's  mind. 
She  was  possessed  of  the  dearest  secrets  of  his  bosom. 
She  knew  the  king  was  a  Roman  Catholic  in  sentiment. 
Sending  for  the  French  ambassador,  Barillon,she  made 
known  her  secret  to  him,  and  besought  him  to  convey 
intelligence  immediately  to  the  Duke  of  York,  the 
king's  brother. 

James  was  in  the  bed-chamber,  where  the  ambassa 
dor  found  him.  He  had  been  so  much  occupied  with 
the  affairs  of  state,  setting  in  order  all  things  prepara 
tory  to  his  accession,  that  the  condition  of  the  king's 
spiritual  matters  had  been  entirely  overlooked  by  him. 
When  he  received  the  message,  he  started  from  his 
chair.  He  felt,  for  the  first  time,  his  heinous  neglect 
of  the  sacred  duty  he  owed  his  dying  brother.  His 
conscience  smote  him.  But  how  to  effect  the  desired 
end  was  the  question  now  to  be  solvred.  It  would  not 


DEATH   OF   CHARLES   II.  393 

do  to  make  the  king's  views  public.  James'  safety 
and  popularity  required  secrecy.  Several  plans  were 
spoken  of,  in  a  whisper,  but  all  were  rejected  as  not 
being  feasible. 

James,  who  was,  and  had  always  been,  an  uncom 
promising  Roman  Catholic,  determined,  at  all  hazards, 
to  carry  out  his  principle.  Waving  aside  the  crowd 
who  continually  thronged  the  sick  chamber,  he  stooped 
down  over  the  dying  form  of  the  king,  and  whispered 
something  into  his  ear. 

"  Yes,  yes,  with  all  my  heart,"  answered  Charles,  so 
as  to  be  heard  by  many  present,  his  face  lighting  up 
with  a  pleased  expression. 

"  Shall  I  bring  a  priest  ?"  asked  the  Duke. 

"  Do,  brother,  for  God's  sake  do,  and  lose  no  time  !" 
replied  the  king,  earnestly.  "  But  no,"  he  added,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "you  will  get  into  trouble." 

"  If  it  costs  me  my  life,  I  will  fetch  a  priest," 
answered  the  Duke. 

Charles  smiled  approval. 

But  it  was  a  difficult  matter  to  find  a  priest  to  per 
form  the  service,  even  for  the  dying  king.  The  law 
forbade  any  one  to  receive  a  proselyte  into  the  bosom 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  It  was  regarded  a 
crime  punishable  with  death.  After  much  effort,  one 
was  found,  however,  who  was  willing  to  undertake  the 
dangerous  office.  It  was  John  Huddleson,  a 
Benedictine  monk,  who  had,  with  great  risk  to  him 
self,  saved  the  king's  life  after  the  battle  of  "Worcester. 
He  was  willing  to  peril  his  life  a  second  time  for  his 
monarch.  But  then  there  arose  another  difficulty. 
The  poor  monk  was  so  unlearned  that  he  did  not  know 

what  was  necessary  to  be  said  on  the  occasion,     This 

17* 


394:  MARY    BUNYAN. 

obstacle  was  obviated,  however,  by  his  obtaining  some 
instruction  from  a  Portuguese  ecclesiastic,  and  John 
was  privately  conducted  up  the  back  stairs  by 
Chiffinch,  a  confidential  servant  of  the  king. 

The  Duke,  in  the  name  of  the  king,  commanded  all 
present  to  leave  the  room,  but  the  Earl  of  Teverst  and 
the  Earl  of  Bath. 

The  room  was  cleared,  the  physicians  withdrawing 
with  the  others.  A  solemn  silence  reigned  throughout 
the  chamber  of  death.  The  small  back  door,  which 
communicated  with  the  stairway,  was  cautiously 
opened,  and  the  monk  introduced.  By  way  of  conceal 
ment,  a  cloak  had  been  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  and 
a  long  flowing  wig  covered  his  shaven  head. 

The  Duke  led  him  to  the  bedside  of  the  king. 
"  Here,  sire,"  he  said,  "  this  good  man  once  saved 
your  life  ;  he  now  comes  to  save  your  soul." 

"  He  is  welcome,"  faintly  answered  the  king. 

Kneeling  low  beside  the  bed,  the  monk  listened  to 
the  whispered  confession  of  the  king.  When  this  was 
ended,  he  pronounced,  in  solemn  tones,  the  absolution. 
He  then  administered  the  extreme  unction.  The  king 
passed  through  the  ceremony  with  evident  satisfaction. 
"  Will  you  receive  the  Lord's  Supper  ?"  asked 
Father  Huddleston  of  the  king. 

"  Surely,  if  I  am  not  unworthy,"  replied  Charles. 

The  host  was    introduced.      The    dvinc;    monarch 

»/        o 

strove  to  rise  and  kneel  before  it.  But  he  was  too  far 
gone. 

"  Be  still,  sire,"  commanded  the  priest,  "  God  will 
accept  the  humiliation  of  the  soul,  and  not  require  that 
of  the  body." 

The  king  obeyed.     Slowly,  and  with  -uplifted  eyes, 


DEATH   OF   CHARLES   II.  395 

the  priest  approached  the  bedside,  bearing  in  his  hand 
the  consecrated  wafer.  The  king  looked  upward,  as  if 
to  ask  a  blessing  on  what  he  was  about  to  do.  The 
Duke  and  the  Earls  stood  round  him.  The  sacrament 
was  administered.  The  king  could  not  swallow  it,  but 
seemed  to  choke  in  the  effort.  Some  water  was  pro 
cured,  and  given  him,  which  enabled  him  to  accom 
plish  his  purpose. 

All  had  been  done  that  the  church  required. 

The  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  again  the  cham 
ber  «f  death  was  filled  with  the  anxious  crowd. 

"  Bring  me  my  children,"  said  Charles,  after  he  had 
become  somewhat  composed,  "  I  want  to  bless  them." 

They  were  assembled  around  his  bedside.  In  tones  of 
parental  tenderness  he  spoke  to  each  one.  His  words 
were  low  and  broken,  but  they  reached  the  hearts  of 
the  weeping  group. 

During  the  night  the  king  could  not  sleep.  He  mo 
tioned  to  his  brother  to  come  near  him.  James  obeyed 
the  summons. 

Gazing  on  the  Duke  with  a  look  of  peculiar  tender 
ness  and  earnestness,  he  whispered,  "  Take  care  of  the 
Duchess  of  Portsmouth,  and  her  boy.  I  leave  them  to 
you.  And  do  not  let  poor  Nelly  starve." 

The  queen,  who  was  unable  to  watch  with  him,  sent 
to  implore  his  pardon  for  any  offence  she  might  have 
given  him.  As  he  received  the  message,  he  looked  up 
with  great  concern.  "  She  asks  my  pardon  !  Poor 
woman  ;  I  ask  hers,  with  all  my  heart,  "  he  replied. 

The  night  wore  on.  The  king  was  unable  to  obtain 
only  short  snatches  of  sleep.  Those  around  his  bed 
saw  that  life  was  fast  waning.  As  the  morning  light 
began  to  steal  into  the  chamber,  the  monarch 


396  MAKY    BUNYAN. 

turned  his  head  and  said  to  one  of  his  attendants, 
"  Full  aside  the  curtain,  that  I  may  once  more  see  the 
light  of  day.  And  the  little  clock  which  stands  at  my 
back,  must  be  wound." 

"  I  have  troubled  you  much,"  he  said  to  the  watch 
ers,  who  had  been  with  him  through  the  night,  "  but  I 
hope  you  will  excuse  me.  I  have  been  a  most  unrea 
sonable  time  dying,  but  you  must  pardon  me." 

These  wTere  the  last  words  he  uttered.  Soon  his 
speech  failed  him,  and  before  ten,  his  senses  were  gone. 
He  lay  with  his  eyes  closed.  His  breathing «.  was 
scarcely  perceptible.  ~No  attempt  was  made  to  revive 
him,  for  it  was  evident  that  his  last  moments  had  come. 
Two  hours  more,  and  Charles  passed  away  without  a 
struggle  or  a  groan. 

Thus  died  one  whose  life  had  been  one  continued 
scene  of  folly  and  vice,  and  whose  reign  had  been  mar 
ked  with  three  most  awful  visitations  that  had  ever 
befallen  the  English  nation — the  Plague,  the  Great 
Fire,  and  the  Dutch  Invasion.  But  the  English  nation 
mourned  for  a  monarch,  who  though  given  to  every 
vice,  yet  possessed  for  them  a  strange  infatuation  with 
his  peasant  manners  and  good  hearted  familiarity. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

MONMOUTH'S    INVASION. 

No  sooner  was  Charles  dead  and  James  elevated  to 
the  throne,  than  wild,  unsettled  spirits,  both  in  Eng 
land  and  on  the  Continent,  began  to  propose  that  the 
Duke  of  Momnouth  should  return  from  his  banishment 
and  assert  his  claim  to  the  throne.  It  had  long  been  be 
lieved  by  the  common  people  that  Charles  had  been 
secretly  married  to  Lucy  Waters,  of  whom  the  Duke 
was  the  offspring,  and  that  the  marriage  contract  was 
kept  in  a  certain  black  box,  which  was  known  to  have 
been  preserved  with  great  care  by  the  king.  This  was 
regarded  as  a  strong  point  in  the  case,  and  with  more 
zeal  than  judgment  and  discretion,  those  who  had  be 
come  truly  attached  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  during 
his  stay  in  England,  because  of  his  advocacy  of  religious 
toleration,  now  urged  him  to  contest  his  uncle's  claim 
to  the  crown. 

Monmouth,  on  leaving  England,  had  repaired  to 
Holland,  where  he  was  regarded  with  great  favor  by 
the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Orange.  At  court  he  was 
always  received  with  the  kindest  and  most  flattering 
attentions.  Thus  he  passed  many  years  of  his  life, 
always  jndulging  the  hope  that  he  would  be  forgiven 
and  recalled  bv  his  father.  But  when  it  was 

(397) 


398  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

announced  to  him  that  Charles  was  dead  and  the  Duke 
of  York  had  ascended  the  throne,  he  relinquished  all 
hope  of  the  crown  ;  and  knowing  that  his  presence  at 
the  Dutch  court  would  necessarily  bring  trouble  to 
Holland,  he  retired  to  Brussels.  Here  the  overtures, 
which  had  been  made  him  while  at  the  Hague,  were 
repeated,  and  certain  considerations  urged  upon  him 
with  such  vehemence,  and  such  plausibility,  that  he 
was  at  length  induced  to  indulge  the  project.  As 
soon  as  it  was  known  that  invasion  was  being  con 
sidered,  Monmouth  found  himself  overwhelmed  by 
offers  of  assistance  from  all  classes  of  exiles.  All  were 
willing  to  rally  round  his  standard,  for  having  been 
exiled  for  the  part  they  had  taken  in  religious  matters, 
they  hated  James  intensely.  Moreover  they  were 
tired  of  banishment,  and  willing  to  attempt  a  return  to 
their  native  land  at  all  risks.  All  classes  of  fugitives 
flocked  to  the  standard  of  Monmouth.  Among  these 
was  William  Dormer,  who  had,  for  years,  been  longing 
for  an  opportunity  to  return  to  his  native  land. 

Secret  negotiations  were  carried  on  between  the  mal 
contents  in  England  and  Scotland,  and  the  refugees, 
until  their  plans  being  consummated,  Monmouth  and 
his  forces  sailed  from  Amsterdam,  and  landed  off  the 
coast  of  Lyme  on  the  morning  of  the  llth  of  June, 
1685. 

Monmouth's  first  act  on  landing  was  to  kneel  and 
return  thanks  to  God  for  his  protection.  As  soon  as  it 
was  known  for  what  purpose  he  had  returned,  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  populace  became  uncontrollable. 
"A  Monmouth!  A  Monmouth!  The  Protestant 
Religion  !"  was  shouted  in  wild  acclaim  bv-  myriad 

o  •/  •. 

tongues,  and  the  cry  spread  from  hamlet  to  hamlet, 


MONMOUTH  S   INVASION. 


399 


from  village  to  village,  until  it  had  gone  out  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 

An  inflammatory  manifesto  was  read  before  the 
people  of  Lyme,  and  then  sent  around  throughout  the 
realm.  In  it  was  declared  that  the  Duke  of  York  had 
burned  down  London,  strangled  Godfrey  ;  had  cut  the 
throat  of  Essex,  and  had  poisoned  the  late  king. 
James  was  declared  a  "  mortal  and  bloody  enemy  ;  a 
tyrant,  a  murderer,  and  a  usurper."  Yengeance  was 
declared  against  him  as  the  foe  to  liberty,  and  it  was 
determined  never  to  return  the  sword  to  the  scabbard 
until  just  punishment  should  be  meted  out  to  him. 

Wherever  Monmouth  went,  he  was  hailed  as  the 
friend  and  guardian  of  liberty.  In  the  western  coun 
ties,  the  great  mass  of  the  population  were  Round 
heads.  From  the  days  of  the  Lord  Protector  they  had 
despised  kingcraft  most  intensely.  Beside  this,  many 
of  them  were  Dissenters,  who  had  suffered  in  the 
horrid  persecutions  of  the  late  reign.  These  were,  to 
a  man,  for  Monmouth ;  for  they  regarded  him  as  a 
good  Protestant,  and  an  enemy  to  Popery. 

At  every  step  hundreds  rallied  under  the  standard 
of  the  Duke.  In  less  than  twenty-four  hours  after  he 
had  landed  at  Lyme,  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of 
fifteen  hundred  men. 

Monmouth  marched  from  Lyme  through  Devonshire 
to  Taunton,  which  lie  entered  without  opposition. 
Here  he  was  received  with  the  most  enthusiastic  dem 
onstrations  of  joy  and  loyalty.  The  doors  and  win 
dows  of  the  houses  were  adorned  with  plumes.  Each 
man  that  appeared  in  the  streets  wore  in  his  hat  a 
green  bough,  the  badge  of  the  Duke's  cause.  A  com 
pany  of  young  girls,  bearing  a  beautifully  embroidered 


400  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

flag,  marched  out  to  meet  him.  The  lady  who  headed 
the  train  presented  him  with  a  small  Bible.  He  re 
ceived  it  in  his  most  agreeable  way,  and  remarked  so 
as  to  be  distinctly  understood,  "  I  come  to  defend  the 
truths  contained  in  this  book,  and  to  seal  them  if  it  must 
be  so,  with  my  blood." 

Royalists  hastened  to  arms.  Several  skirmishes  be 
tween  King  James'  men  and  Duke  Monmouth's  forces 
took  place,  one  party  conquering  to-day,  the  other  to 
morrow.  Momnouth  gained  some  decisive  victories. 
Elated  with  his  success,  he  marched  towards  Bridge- 
water,  which  he  reached  the  22d  of  June.  His  army  now 
consisted  of  about  six  thousand  men,  and  but  for  want  of 
arms  and  ammunition  could  have  been  increased  to  dou 
ble  that  number.  Scythes,  and  other  articles  of  husban 
dry  were  called  into  requisition,  but  the  demand  could 
not  be  met,  and  hundreds  had  to  return  to  their  homes 
because  they  could  not  be  provided  with  arms.  The 
Mayor  and  Aldermen  of  Bridgewater  came  out  to 
meet  the  Duke,  clad  in  their  insignia  of  office,  and 
walking  before  him,  proceeded  to  the  High  Cross,  and 
there  proclaimed  him  king. 

Monmouth  wras  elated  with  his  success.  He  deter 
mined  to  march  to  Bristol,  but  was  thwarted  by  the 
king's  men,  and  they  directed  their  steps  towards 
Frome. 

Among  those  who  had  come  over  from  Amsterdam 
with  the  Duke,  and  attached  himself  to  his  cause  with 
•unflinching  fervor,  was  William  Dormer.  After 
arriving  in  England  he  had  longed  to  leave  the  army 
and  hasten  to  Bedford.  But  his  confidence  in  the 
Duke's  success,  and  his  loyalty,  would  not  permit  him 
to  act  thus  treacherously.  He  had  been  engaged  in 


HONMOCTH'S  INVASION.  401 

every  skirmish  that  had  yet  taken  place,  and  he  fondly 
hoped  a  few  more  battles  would  place  Monmouth  in 
possession  of  his  just  claims,  when  he  hoped  to  fly  to 
Mary,  and  in  peace  and  quiet  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  days. 

He  had  sent  her  word  by  a  messenger  whom  he  had 
met  in  Lyme,  of  his  arrival  and  his  intentions.  •  How 
her  heart  beat  with  joy  as  she  heard  the  cheering 
words !  A  few  weeks  more,  and  she  would  listen  to 
William's  voice,  and  feel  the  pressure  of  his  kind  hand. 
Then  he  would  leave  her  no  more.  She  took  the  note 
he  had  written  her,  after  her  father  had  read  it  to  her, 
and  placed  it  next  her  bosom.  It  contained  a  lock  of 
hair — a  simple  memento  of  his  constant  love. 

After  Monmouth's  flattering  reception  in  Bridgewater, 
he  moved  on  with  his  enlarged  army  towards  Bristol. 
His  object  was  to  seize  that  place  before  any  of  the 
king's  soldiers  could  come  to  its  protection.  It  was 
garrisoned  only  by  the  Gloucestershire  train-bands, 
under  the  command  of  Beaufort,  whom  Monmouth 
believed  to  be  but  a  poor  general.  But  Beaufort  was 
far-sighted  and  resolute.  Instead  of  being  drawn  away 
by  the  feint  which  Monmouth  prepared  to  deceive  him, 
he  remained  in  the  city,  with  his  men  drawn  up  under 
arms,  declaring,  "  he  would  burn  it  down  himself, 
rather  than  see  it  occupied  by  traitors." 

Monmouth  rested  through  the  afternoon  of  the  25th 
of  June  at  Keynsham  bridge,  only  a  short 'distance 
from  Bristol.  His  intention  was  to  make  a  descent 
upon  the  place  under  cover  of  night ;  but  his  plans 
were  thwarted  by  the  arrival  of  the  king's  troops,  and 
he  was  compelled  to  abandon  his  design  for  the 
present. 


4:02  MAET   BUNYAN. 

After  several  propositions  to  advance,  all  of  which 
seemed  impracticable,  it  was  decided  by  the  insurgents 
to  return  to  Bridgewater — Monmouth  having  been 
informed  that  quite  a  large  army  favorable  to  him  was 
there  being  put  under  arms. 

When  "William  Dormer  heard  of  the  proposed 
retreat,  his  heart  sunk  within  him.  As  long  as  they 
were  advancing  towards  London,  he  feared  no  danger, 
shrunk  from  no  responsibility.  He  was  nerved  to 
action  by  the  thought  of  soon  again  beholding  her 
whom  he  loved  with  an  ardent,  undying  affection.  As 
they  retreated,  lie  was  spiritless  and  dejected.  His 
comrades  rallied  him  on  his  sad  appearance,  and 
endeavored  by  jest  and  song  to  rouse  his  flagging 
courage.  He  was  a  great  favorite.  His  manly, 
upright  spirit,  and  agreeable  manner,  won  for  him 
friends  wherever  he  went.  His  companions  in  arms 
painted  to  him  a  bright  future.  When  king  Monmouth 
triumphed  over  all  his  foes,  he  would  bestow  upon 
them  and  him  offices  of  importance  for  their  good 
services.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  they  thus  endeavored 
to  arouse  him  by  picturing  to  him  future  emolument. 
William  Dormer  could  not  cast  away  his  dark  disap 
pointment.  It  wras  to  him  a  fearful  foreboding. 

On  the  6th  of  July,  the  last  engagement  worthy  the 
name  of  a  battle  was  fought  near  Bridgewater  between 
the  insurgents  and  the  king's  troops,  in  which  the 
latter  were  victorious,  Monmouth  and  his  army  being 
totally  defeated.  Many  of  his  men  were  taken  prison 
ers,  while  he,  with  Buyse,  Grey,  and  a  few  other 
prominent  friends,  fled  in  disgrace  from  the  scene  of 
conflict,  and  were  finally  overtaken  and  brought  to 
justice. 


MONMOUTH'S  INVASION.  403 

Many  of  the  prisoners  were  executed  immediately  ; 
others  were  gibbeted  on  the  following  day,  and  others 
were  thrown  into  prison  to  rot  in  irons.  A  few  of  the 
soldiery  escaped  to  the  woods  and  marshes.  Among 
this  latter  class  was  William  Dormer,  whose  left  hand 
had  been  shot  through  during  the  engagement.  He 
made  his  way,  as  best  he  could,  towards  Bedford, 
suffering  the  most  severe  pain  from  his  wound,  which 
had  now  become  highly  inflamed  from  exposure. 
Wearied  with  his  travel,  and  faint  from  the  misery  he 
had  endured,  he  halted  on  the  fourth  day  at  a  little 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Oxfordshire.  The  peasant 
woman  received  him  kindly.  She  was  the  half  sister 
of  a  dissenting  minister,  who  had  suffered  imprison 
ment  for  his  faith.  She  prepared  for  him  a  pallet  of 
straw,  dressed  his  wound,  and,  together  with  her 
husband,  insisted  that  the  poor  fugitive  should  remain 
with  them  until  he  was  able  to  proceed  on  his  journey. 

"But  you  will  bring  trouble  upon  yourselves," 
answered  William  to  their  entreaties.  "  If  the  officers 
know  you  are  harboring  me,  your  lives  may  be  the 
forfeit." 

"  God  will  take  care  of  us,"  replied  the  man.  "  We 
are  here  away  from  the  world,  and  I  do  not  see  that 
there  is  any  danger.  Beside,  it  is  a  part  of  our  religion 
to  feed  the  hungry  and  bind  up  the  wounds  of  the 
suffering ;  we  are  willing  to  leave  the  rest  with  God. 
So,  my  friend,  if  you  will  stay,  you  are  welcome." 

William's  hand  was  fast  improving.  The  poultice 
of  green  herbs  made  by  the  poor  peasant  woman  drew 
out  the  inflammation,  and  the  salve  she  prepared 
healed  it.  In  a  few  days  he  was  sufficiently  strong  to 
pursue  his  way. 


404  MAET   BtJNYAN. 

He  returned  his  heartfelt  thanks  to  the  kind  strang 
ers  who  had  saved  him  from  wretchedness  and  death, 
and  bidding  them  farewell  set  out  upon  his  rugged 
path  towards  Bedford.  His  heart  was  filled  with 
grateful  emotions,  and  beat  high  with  joyful  antici 
pation.  In  three  days  more,  God  willing,  he  would  be 
with  Mary.  Then  his  trials  would  be  at  an  end.  No 
longer  fearing  discovery  and  capture,  he  ventured  into 
the  highway  with  the  hope  of  gaming  some  assistance 
on  his  way. 

It  was  towards  the  evening  of  the  day  that  he  had 
left  th'e  peasant's  hut.  He  was  walking  along  as 
rapidly  as  his  impaired  strength  would  permit.  His 
mind  was  busy  with  the  past  and  future. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  coming  up  in 
great  haste  behind  him.  He  turned  to  look.  They 
were  the  king's  men.  Before  he  could  take  a  second 
thought  they  were  upon  him,  and  he  was  their 
prisoner. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A      STRANGE      MEETING. 

THE  suu  was  gilding  with,  the  glorious  beams  of 
morning,  roof,  and  turret,  and  spire  of  the  great  city 
of  London,  throwing  his  radiance,  like  a  sea  of  molten 
gold,  across  the  noble  Thames.  It  was  the  morning  of 
the  28th  of  July,  1685,  about  two  weeks  after  Mou 
rn  outh's  disastrous  defeat. 

A  small  frigate  was  seen  about  sunrise  ascending  the 
Thames.  ISTo  one  gave  it  particular  heed,  for  it  was 
by  no  means  an  unusual  sight.  Slowly  it  passed  up  to 
the  landing. 

Suddenly  the  guns  poured  forth  their  hideous  bel- 
lowings,  which  resounded  far  and  wide,  and  shook,  as 
it  were,  the  very  foundations  of  the  city.  The  people 
were  astonished.  "What  was  there  in  that  little  frigate 
to  cause  such  rejoicing?  She  soon  landed.  From 
tongue  to  tongue  the  news  spread  wdth  electric  speed. 
Soon  the  guns  sent  forth  another  loud,  long  peal.  And 
the  people  caught  up  the  strain,  "  Long  live  the  King  ! 
Death  to  the  rebels !"  was  echoed  in  jubilant  strains 
from  multitudes  of  commingling  voices. 

And  what  was  the  cause  of  this  great  demonstration 
and  rejoicing  ?  What  ?  That  little  vessel  contained 

those  who  had  fought  for  England  and  the   Protestant 
[405]    ' 


406  MARY   BUNYAN. 

religion  now  to  expiate  their  crime  on  the  scaffold.  And 
the  mad  multitude  send  up  shouts  of  loud  acclaim  that 
their  fellow-men  are  to  suffer  and  die.  Ah,  the  heart- 
lessness  of  the  base  herd  ! 

But  there  were  sad  hearts  in  London  when  it  was 
made  known  who  the  prisoners  were.  Aged  eyes  wept 
bitter  tears,  for  the  grandfather  and  grandmother  have 
loved  Benjamin  and  William  from  their  earliest  years. 
The  mother,  whose  sad  face  tells  that  she  has  not 
forgotten  to  mourn  over  the  loved  one  lost,  and  the 
young,  and  frail  sister,  whose  heart  is  knit  to  the  broth 
ers  by  ties  of  strongest  love,  weep  in  anguish  over 
their  sad  fate. 

The  vessel  lands.  On  the  quay  stands  a  group  of 
unhappy  mourners.  It  is  the  aged  William  Kiffin  and 
his  wife,  and  the  mother  and  sister  of  the  two  young 
ilewlings.  Strainingly  they  gaze,  as  Captain  Eich- 
ardson,  with  his  aids,  is  seen  on  deck.  They  advance, 
holding  in  custody  two  young  men,  one  about  twenty 
two  years  of  age,  and  the  other  scarce  twenty. 

Oh,  horrid  sight  to  greet  the  eyes  of  loving  ones  ! 

Their  noble  forms  are  loaded  with  irons,  and  the 
manacles  on  their  wrists  clash  and  rattle  as  they  move 
along.  The  sister  screams,  and  rushes  forward  to  clasp 
her  brother  in  her  arms.  But  the  guards  motion  her 
back.  She  dare  not  approach.  Shrieking,  she  falls 
to  the  earth.  The  young  men  smile,  and  lift  their  eyes 
to  heaven  as  they  exchange  glances  of  recognition  with 
their  grand-parents  and  mother.  The  old  man's  heart 
is  breaking.  He  has  nursed  these  children  from  their 
mother's  breast.  And  he  loves  them  with  more  than 
a  father's  love.  They  are  the  only  sons  of  their  father, 
whom  God  took  to  himself  while  they  were  yet  babes. 


A   STRANGE   MEETING.  407 

Oh  !  it  is  trying.  But  respect  must  be  had  to  those  in 
command,  and  the  mourners  can  only  stand  aside  and 
wring  their  hands  in  anguish. 

The  young  men  are  nothing  daunted.  They  have 
fought  for  liberty  and  religion,  and  their  faith  is  in 
God.  They  know  in  whom  they  have  trusted,  and 
are  willing,  yea,  rejoice  to  bear  suffering  for  His 
name. 

They  move  on  towards  Newgate,  conducted  by  the 
soldiers ;  for  though  the  best  blood  in  the  land  flows 
in  their  veins,  they  are  to  be  treated  with,  all  the 
ignominy  and  cruelty  of  common  felons.  The  massive 
bars  spring  back  to  give  them  entrance.  The  hootings 
and  mad  acclaims  of  the  multitude  fall  on  their  ears. 

There  is  a  company  of  the  King's  men  at  the  gate, 
awaiting  its  opening.  In  their  midst  is  a  prisoner 
bound  with,  cords,  but  not  loaded  with,  irons.  He  is 
pale  and  emaciated,  and  stands  with  trembling  form. 

The  prisoners  pass  in.  Just  as  they  enter  they  look 
at  each  other.  The  brothers  recognize  the  pale,  worn 
face  of  the  other  prisoner. 

It  is  William  Dormer. 

"  Great  God !  and  are  you  too  here,  "William !" 
exclaims  Benjamin  Ilewling.  The  guardsman  strikes 
him  on  the  mouth,  and  bids  him  be  silent.  It  is  an 
insult  hard  to  brook  by  the  spirited  young  man.  But 
he  remembers  that  his  Master  had  been  smitten  and 
beaten.  And  following  his  example,  he  opens  not  his 
mouth. 

The  young  Hewlings  and  William  Dormer  had  often 
seen  each  other  in  the  meetings  of  the  Dissenters. 
They  had  met  around  the  communion  table  of  their 
Lord  and  Master.  They  had  met  on  the  (battle-field. 


408  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

and  fought  side  by  side  for  the  cause  for  which  they 
were  now  to  sacrifice  their  lives.  They  now  met, 
prisoners,  at  Newgate.  They  should  meet  once  more 
— before  the  throne  of  God.  "William  Dormer  smiled 
sadly  as  he  returned  the  young  man's  recognition. 
He  cared  not  for  himself.  His  faith  in  God  was  firm, 
and  he  could  meet  death  unflinchingly.  But  Mary ! 
Ah,  his  heart  bled  for  her !  He  dreaded  the  shock 
to  her  delicate  nature.  For  her  sake  lie  prayed  for 
liberty. 

"  "William,  my  child,  my  poor,  dear  "William !" 
exclaimed  a  female  voice,  and  the  form  of  an  elderly 
woman  was  seen  rushing  towards  the  prisoner. 

"  Stand  back,  woman !"  said  one  of  the  soldierSj 
pushing  her  back  with  his  sword. 

"  Oh,  let  me  speak  to  him  once  more,  my  poor  child  ! 
I  have  not  seen  him  this  many  a  year.  Kind  sir,  let 
me  speak  to  him  this  once." 

The  soldier  gave  back  sullenly,  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt 
rushed  forward,  and  folded  William  to  her  bosom. 
The  young  man  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  the  two 
wept  aloud.  Neither  could  speak.  Even  the  hard 
hearted  soldiers  were  touched  by  the  scene,  and  tears 
started  to  the  eyes  of  those  unaccustomed  to  weep. 

At  length  "William  found  voice  to  speak.  "  Mrs. 
Gaunt,  Mary,  Mary  !  Oh,  tell  me  about  her." 

"  Well,  my  child,  I  saw  her  last  week." 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  Give  her  this,"  and 
with  his  bound  hands  he  took  from  his  bosom  a  note 
which  the  soldiers  had  permitted  him  to  write  after  he 
was  captured. 

"  She  shall  come  down  to  see  you,  "William.  I  will 
go  for  hertnyself." 


A   STBANGE   MEETING.  409 

*'  But  we  will  remain  in  London  but  a  few  days. 
They  are  going  to  take  us  to  Dorchester  for  trial. 
Could  I  see  her  once  more  I  could  die  happy." 

".Come,  get  away,  woman!"  said  one  of  the  brutal 
men,  "  you  have  been  there  long  enough,  whining 
over  that  rebel." 

Mrs.  Gaunt  did  not  heed  his  words,  but  continued 
to  talk  to  William.  The  soldier  took  her  arm  rudely, 
and  bade  her  "  be  gone  !" 

"  I'll  see  you  again,  my  boy,  before  you  go  to  Dor 
chester.  They  let  me  come  here  to  visit  the  sick." 

The  soldier  motioned  her  to  the  gate.  A  moment 
more,  and  she  had  disappeared  without  the  walls. 

The  prisoners  were  conducted  to  their  gloomy  cells, 
where  they  were  lodged,  still  manacled  with  irons. 
But  as  in  the  case  of  Paul  and  Silas,  God  was  with 
them  in  the  dungeon,  and  they  were  enabled  to  sing 
and  give  praises  unto  Him.  Oh,  the  exceeding  love 
of  God,  which  enables  his  children  to  bear  all  things 
for  his  sake  ! — cruelty,  imprisonment,  shame,  disgrace, 
death  itself.  His  grace  is  sufficient.  Who  that  lias 
tasted  his  love  can  ever  doubt  it  ? 

18 


CHAPTER    XL. 

THE      VISITORS. 

THE  next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  there  stood 
before  the  great  eastern  gate  of  the  prison  a  man  and 
two  females,  craving  entrance.  The  women  were 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  veiled  closely.  Their 
forms  were  bowed  with  grief.  They  scaicely  lifted  their 
heads.  The  old  man's  face  bore  the  marks  of  recent 
sorrow.  His  silver  locks  hung  over  his  shoulders, 
giving  to  him  a  highly  venerable  appearance. 

They  had  been  standing  some  time  in  waiting  before 
the  turnkey  to  the  outer  gate  appeared.  He  eyed 
them  closely.  Then  looked  at  the  carriage,  with  its 
driver  and  handsome  span  of  noble  bays, — then 
sullenly  opened  the  massive  portal,  and  bade  them 
walk  in.  They  were  wholly  unused  to  prison  scenes, 
and  the  dark,  fierce  countenance  of  the  porter,  and 
frowning  walls  of  the  gloomy  prison,  filled  their  hearts 
with  dreadful  shuddering. 

They  halted  in  the  court  before  the  inner  door  to 
await  its  opening.  While  they  stood  thus.  Captain 
Richardson,  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  young -men 
before  they  landed  from  the  frigate,  came  up,  and  in  a 
rough  tone  accosted  them : 

"  Who  are  you,  and  whom  do  you  want  to  see  ?"  he 
asked  gruffly. 


THE    VISITORS.  411 

"  We  wish  to  be  permitted  to  see  the  young  men 
who  were  put  in  prison  yesterday — the  Hewlings." 

"  And  who  are  you  ?" 

*'  The  mother  and  sister  of  the  boys,  and  tlieir  grand 
father,  who  has  watched  over  them  from  their  cradle." 

"Have  you  any  permission  to  see  the  boys,  old 
man  ?" 

"  I  have  obtained  none,  presuming  I  would  be 
admitted.  Can  you  not,  sir,  give  us  leave  to  enter  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  could,"  answered  the  officer, 
tauntingly,  without  making  any  movement  towards 
doing  so. 

"  We  should  be  glad  to  get  in,  sir.  The  ladies  do 
not  like  to  stand  here  exposed." 

"Well,  it's  no  use  deceiving  you  any  longer,  old 
man.  You  can't  go  in." 

"  Oh,  pray,  do  let  us  in  !"  exclaimed  the  mother 
most  beseechingly.  "  My  poor  boys !  My  dear 
children  !  Oh, "do  sir,  let  me  see  them  !" 

The  man  made  no  reply,  but  looked  sneeringly  at 
the  suppliant. 

"  Do  permit  us  to  go  in,  sir ;  you  have  the  authority 
to  do  so.  It  will  break  my  poor  daughter's  heart  if 
she  is  denied  the  sight  of  her  boys." 

"  Her  boys  are  rebels  of  the  worst  character.  I  tell 
you,  they  are  criminals,  and  their  friends  cannot  see 
them." 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,"  ejaculated  the  sister,  lifting 
her  veil,  and  looking  at  him  most  beseechingly.  "  Oh, 
do  let  us  see  my  poor  brothers.  We  do  not  wish  to 
say  anything  to  them  but  what  you  can  hear,  the 
whole  world  can  know.  Oh,  do  let  us  in,  I  pray 
you  !" 


412  MAKT   BUNYAST. 

Tears  streamed  down  her  face  while  she  spoke,  and 
the  mother's  sobs  were  heard  above  her  words.  The 
old  man  wept  like  a  child. 

It  was  a  scene  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone.  But  the 
officer  remained  untouched.  He  appeared  to  delight 
in  the  misery  before  him,  and  replied  roughly  : 

"  They  are  rebels,  lassie,  against  our  most  gracious 
King,  and  the  laws  of  this  most  glorious  land ;  and 
have  forfeited  all  claim  to  compassion.  You  cannot 
go  in.  They  must  be  punished  for  their  evil«Joings. 
And  I  will  keep  them  in  close  confinement  until  they 
have  their  trial." 

"  They  fought  for  the  liberty  of  this  land — for  free 
dom  to  worship  God,"  replied  the  woman,  drawing  her 
self  up  to  her  noblest  height,  as  if  to  resent  the  indig 
nity  that  had  been  oifered  her  in  the  words  of  the  bru 
tal  captain.  "  They  have  done  what  they  believed  to 
be  right — what  the  nation  Avill  one  day  see  is  right  ; 
and  if  they  must  be  cruelly  punished  for  it,  God  will 
stand  by  them,  and  avenge  them  on  those  who  shame 
fully  use  and  abuse  them." 

The  old  man  felt  it  was  no  avail.  Even  entreaties 
\vere  naught  to  reach  that  savage  nature.  Yet,  he 
would  make  one  more  effort. 

"  No  I  tell  you.     There  is  no  hope  ;  so  be  gone." 

The  two  females  wept  aloud.  The  old  man  groaned, 
md  taking  the  females  by  the  hand,  the  three  moved 
to  the  gate,  and  passed  out. 

"  Curse  that  old  Baffin !"  muttered  Richardson,  as  tho 
^ate  closed  upon  them.  "  The  old  dog  !  he  ought  to 
be  hung  himself.  He  lias  done  more  for  these  devil 
ish  religionists  than  all  the  other  men  in  London  be 
sides.  He  gives  them  money,  and  influence,  and  re- 


THE    VISITORS.  413 

spectability.  I  am  glad  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to 
cross  him.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  young  lassie.  She  is  a 
fair,  buxom  girl ;  but  the  rebel  boys  must  be  punished 
and  these  sanctimonious  preachers  too." 

The  little  company  had  scarcely  reached  the  car 
riage,  which  stood  without  the  gate,  before  another  fe 
male,  altogether  different  in  her  aspect,  applied  for  ad 
mittance.  She  acted  as  one  used  to  the  place.  She 
scarcely  asked  to  enter.  The  porter  threw  open  the 
door,  and  she  walked  in  with  a  calm,  steady  step.  In 
her  hand  she  held  a  porringer  of  broth.  Beneath  her 
arm  was  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  in  a  reticule  or  bag  she 
carried,  cloth  and  a  salve,  to  dress  the  wounds  of  the 
poor  prisoners. 

Captain  Richardson  was  yet  standing  in  the  court 
yard  when  Mrs.  Gaunt  entered.  He  was  accustomed 
to  her  daily  visits,  and  could  have  no  pretext  for  refus 
ing  her  now,  else  the  savageness  of  his  present  mood 
would  have  driven  her  thence. 

"  What  do  you  want,  woman  ?"  he  asked  as  if  de 
lighted  to  torment  her  with  questioning. 

"  I  come  to-day,  as  is  my  wont,  to  see  the  sick,  and 
administer  to  their  necessities." 

"  And  what  do  you  expect  to  make  by  it  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  the  gratification  it  gives  me  to 
know  I  am  doing  my  duty." 

"  And  what  have  you  got  there  in  your  saucepan  ? 
Do  you  feed  the  prisoners  as  well  as  bind  up  their 
wounds  ?" 

"  A  little  broth,  sir,  for  that  poor  man  who  lost  his 
leg  in  the  battle,  and  who,  poor  creature,  is  in  almost 
a  dying  condition.  He  can't  live  many  days,  sir.  He 
has  been  shamefully  neglected.  His  limb  is  all  in- 


414.  MARY   BUN Y AN. 

flamed,  and  I  do  believe,  if  he  had  not  had  some  of 
this  good  salve  that  I  bring  with  me,  it  would  have 
mortified  days  ago." 

"  "Well,  go  in  with  your  broth  and  salve.  Let  the 
poor  wretches  do  the  best  they  can,  for  their  time  is 
short.  A  few  weeks  more,  and  all  who  outlive  their 
wounds  will  be  dangling  from  the  gibbets." 

The  jailer  gave  the  woman  admittance.  She  passed 
along  her  usual  round,  after  the  conductor,  bestowing 
comfort  and  joy  wherever  she  went.  When  she  had 
finished  her  visits  to  those  whom  she  daily  attended, 
she  asked  if  there  were  any  more  prisoners. 

"  Three  new  ones  got  in  yesterday." 

"  And  are  they  sick  ?" 

"  One  of  them  looks  ailing  ;  he  is  as  white  as  your 
cap,  and  can  hardly  get  along. 

"  Show  me  his  cell." 

The  man  led  her  through  a  dark  passage  which  ter 
minated  at  the  extreme  rear  of  the  building.  Stop 
ping  before  a  low,  narrow  cell,  he  withdrew  the  key 
from  his  pocket,  and  unlocked  the  iron-grated  door. 
The  prisoner  started  from  his  low  stool  in  the  corner. 
Mrs.  Gaunt  spoke.  She  knew  "William  would  recog 
nize  her  voice. 

"  Who  is  this  poor  man  whom  you  have  placed  in 
such  miserable  lodgings  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  familiar  voice,  William  started 
and  came  forward.  He  knew  that  caution  was  neces 
sary,  so  he  made  no  further  manifestation  of  joy. 

"I  don't  know  what  his  name  is.  All  I  know  is 
that  he  is  one  of  the  rebels,  and  got  caught  for  his 
pains." 

u  And  can't  he  be  put  in  a  more  comfortable  place 


THE   VISITOJRS.  4:15 

than  this  ?  It  is  cruel  to  keep  him  in  this  dark,  damp 
cell  to  rot.  Go  and  bring  the  keeper  here,  Mr.  Nard- 
ley,  and  let's  see  what  can  be  done  for  him."  The 
man  turned  the  key  in  William's  cell  door,  and  made 
off  to  obey  Mrs.  Gaunt's  command. 

"William,"  said  the  good  woman,  as  soon  as  the 
man's  footfall  died  away,  "  William,  my  poor  child, 
how  do  you  do?" 

•'  Well  in  mind,  thank  God,  but  my  body  is  yet  a 
little  feeble.  I  was  shot  in  the  battle,  and  although 
the  wound  has  healed,  I  have  not  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  it." 

"  And  you  never  can,  here  in  this  place,  without 
light  and  air.  But  you  are  comfortable  in  mind,  my 
child.  Go.d  is  with  you  in  the  dungeon,  speaking 
peace  and  comfort  to  your  soul,  and  bidding  you  to 
'  fear  not  them  which  can  kill  the  body  only.' ': 

"  Yes,  Jesus  speaks  sweet  consolation  to  me.  I  am 
at  peace  with  Him,  and  in  Him.  My  only  distress  is 
Mary.  I  think  of  her  night  and  day,  I  dreamed  of  her 
last  night,  an  angel,  who  came  to  me  in  this  low,  dark 
place,  and  said,  '  Fear  not,  William,  I  am  with  you, 
and  Christ  our  blessed  Lord  is  with  you.'  And  I 
thought  she  gave  me  a  cup  of  refreshing  water,  and 
bathed  my  throbbing  temples,  and  rubbed  my  chafed 
hands.  And  more,  Mrs.  Gaunt.  I  thought  those  dark 
eyes  were  unsealed,  and  such  a  look  as  she  gave  me  ! 
Oh,  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  so  like  heaven  !  I  was 
delighted  and  awoke,  and  for  a  moment  I  could  not 
think  it  was  a  dream  ;  I  put  out  my  arms  to  bring  her 
to  me,  but  they  met  only  the  empty  air.  Then  I  knew 
that  I  had  been  dreaming,  for  the  heavy  tramp  of  the 
watchman's  step  was  the  only  sound  I  heard,  and  no 


416  MARY   BUNYAN. 

ray  of  light  lit  up  the  horrid  darkness  of  this  loathsome 
place.  I  tried  to  sleep  again.  I  hoped  to  dream. 
But  I  could  not.  My  thoughts  would  not  rest." 

"Poor  child!  when  we  get  to  that  better  ]and, 
there  will  be  no  such  disappointment,  William.  We 
shall  not  dream  there,  for  there  shall  be  no  night." 

"  And  will  not  be  long,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  before  I  get 
there.  My  days  are  fast  drawing  to  a  close.  The  law 
knows  no  relenting  in  a  case  like  mine.  The  Hewlings 
and  I  are  doomed." 

"  It  may  be,  William,  that  you  can  be  pardoned." 

"  l^ever,  never,  my  dear  woman.  The  gibbet  is  my 
lot.  But  I  die  in  a  glorious  cause.  If  I  did  not  leave 
Mary  behind,  and  you,  my  more  than  dear  mother,  I 
would  not  hesitate  a  moment.  I  arn  ready  now  to 
go." 

"  Something  tells  me,  my  dear  boy,  that  I  shall  not 
be  long  behind  you ;  possibly  I  may  go  first.  These 
are  times  of  persecution,  and  sword,  and  flame, 
throughout  the  land,  and  I  cannot  hope  long  to  escape. 
I  belong  to  the  despised  sect,  and  my  deeds  must 
become  known.  I  try  to  do  my  Master's  will,  to  aid 
Him,  in  the  persons  of  the  disciples  when  sick  and  in 
prison,  and  to  minister  to  them  a  cup  of  cold  water  in 
His  name.  When  this  thing  comes  to  the  ears  of 
those  in  authority,  why,  then  I  must  suffer.  But  I'll 
trust  my  Saviour,  and  go  on." 

"  Will  you  go  to  see  Mary,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  tell  her 
all  ?  You  can  break  the  sad  news  to  her  better  than 
any  body  else  could.  Oh,  if  I  could  see  her  once 
more ! — could  once  again  hear  her  sweet  voice,  I 
should  have  nothing  more  to  wish  for." 

"  You  shall  see  her  again,  God  willing.     I  will  go 


THE   VISITORS.  417 

for  her,  and  bring  her  down  here,  if  you  stay  long 
enough  in  this  jail ;  and  if  they  move  you  away,  I'll  go 
with  her  to  where  they  lodge  you." 

"  They  are  going  to  take  the  young  Hewlings  and 
me  to  Dorchester,  to  try  us ;  but  I  do  not  know 
when." 

"  I'll  find  that  out,  and  then  I'll  determine  what  to 
do." 

Just  then,  steps  of  the  guide  and  keepe)  were  heard 
in  the  corridor. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Nardley,  to  see  if  you  cannot 
give  this  poor  man  a  better  cell.  He  will  die  here 
before  his  trial  comes  off." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  I  think  we  can,  though  we  are 
very  full.  I'll  book  him  at  better  lodgings.  I  am 
glad  you  spoke  to  me  about  it.  It  is  a  shame  to  let 
our  fellow-men  suffer  when  there  is  no  need  for  it." 

Mr.  ISTardley  was  a  kind-hearted  man.  It  was 
through  his  influence  that  Mrs.  Gaunt  had  been 
permitted  to  visit  the  jail,  and  attend  on  its  suffering 
inmates. 

The  keeper  and  assistant  went  to  look  for  a  better 
cell,  and  again  William  Dormer  and  Mrs.  Gaunt  had 
opportunity  for  a  word  or  two.  It  was  arranged  that 
Mrs.  Gaunt,  if  possible,  should  find  out  from  the  keeper 
whether  theuprisoners  were  to  be  tried  in  London,  or 
sent  to  the  "West,  and  at  what  time  their  trial  should 
take  place.  The  rest  was  left  to  her  wisdom  to  plan 
and  execute. 

"  I  may  not  be  back  to-morrow,  "William.  There  is 
a  poor  sick  sister  near  me,  who  needs  my  attention. 
She  cannot  live  long,  perhaps  not  beyond  two  days  ; 
and  then,  if  it  seems  best,  I  will  go  to  Bedford  for 


418  MARY    BUNYAN. 

Mary.  I  would  not  build  you  up  on  a  false  hope.  As 
you  say,  the  law  knows  no  mercy.  Trust  in  God,  and 
he  will  bring  to  pass  whatever  is  best  for  you.  This 
world  is  a  scene  of  trial  and  disappointment.  Yoii  do 
not  know,  my  poor  boy,  about  this  as  I  do.  But  we 
will  not  talk  about  its  cares  now,  but  think  of  better 
things.  I  must  see  the  Hewlings  before  I  go,  if  they 
will  let  me.  The  keeper  is  coming."  She  grasped  his 
hand. 

"  This  poor  man  will  do  well,  Mr.  Nardley,  if  he  can 
have  a  comfortable  cell.  He  has  no  fever,  and  good 
food  and  quiet  sleep  will  be  all  he  will  need,  together 
with  a  little  exercise. 

"  The  assistant  told  me  of  two  other  prisoners  ;  can 
I  see  them  ?" 

"  They  are  doing  well,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  and  Captain 
Richardson  has  commanded  that  nobody  shall  see 
them." 

"  Who  are  they  ?" 

"  They  are  grandchildren  of  Rev.  Mr.  Kiffin,  and 
were  put  in  here  for  taking  up  arms  against  the  gov 
ernment.  You  know  Captain  Richardson  hates  the 
Dissenters,  and  he  delights  to  punish  them.  He  will 
not  let  their  mother  and  sister  see  them." 

"  How  do  the  youths  appear  ?" 

"  Yery  well,  madam.  I  heard  them  singing  and  pray 
ing  this  morning  in  their  cells,  as  I  passed  round." 

"  Are  they  in  the  same  cell  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am  ;  Captain  Richardson  had  them  put 
in  different  parts  of  the  building.  He  said  the  miser- 
able  wretches  should  know  no  mercy.31 

Mrs.  Gaunt  went  speedily  from  the  prison  to  the 
house  of  the  sick  sister.  She  found  her  in  the  agonies 


THE   VISITORS.  419 

of  death.  Her  mind  was  calm  and  collected,  and  she 
was  enabled  to  praise  God  'mid  the  most  intense  suffer 
ings  with  which  her  body  was  racked. 

"  I  go  to  Jesus,"  were  her  last  audible  words. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  spent  the  night  with  the  family,  perform 
ing  the  necessary  duties  preparatory  to  consigning  the 
body  to  the  grave.  She  remained  the  next  day  to  the 
Funeral — saw  the  body  deposited  in  its  narrow  bed. 
She  went  with  the  bereaved  husband  and  children  to 
their  now  desolate  home,  prepared  everything  for  their 
comfort,  and  then  sought  her  own  little  cottage  to  com 
mune  with  God  and  have  her  spiritual  strength  re 
newed. 

That  night  about  twelve  o'clock  she  heard  a  low  rap 
ping  at  her  front  door.  She  arose,  threw  on  her  clothes 
and  went  to  see  what  it  meant. 

"  For  God's  sake  take  me  in,  Sister  Gannt.  They 
are  on  my  heels  to  bring  me  to  the  scaffold." 

"  And  who  are  you,  man  ?"  she  asked. 

"  John  Burton,  one  of  the  Non-Conformists  who  took 
up  arms  to  tight  for  the  faith.  But  you  know  we  were 
conquered,  and  I  am  trying  to  flee  from  England  with 
my  little  family,  for  if  I  am  overtaken  I  shall  certainly 
perish  on  the  scaffold." 

"  Where  are  your  wife  and  children,  man  ?" 

"  I  have  but  one  child,  a  daughter,  and  she  and  my 
wife  are  here  with  me." 

"  I  cannot  turn  away  him  that  asks  for  shelter,"  the 
good  woman  answered.  "  Come  in,  come  in  !" 

She  showed  them  to  bed  and  retired. 

The  next  day  she  made  ample  provision  for  them, 
bidding  them  to  keep  within  door  until  she  returned, 
which  would  be  in  two  or  three  as. 


420  MARY   BUNYAN. 

She  then  set  out  on  her  journey  to  Bedford,  and  did 
not  rest  till  she  reached  there.  She  unfolded  the  sad 
news  to  the  family  as  gently  as  could.  Poor  Mary  !  it 
appeared  her  heart  would  break  when  she  heard  of  her 
lover's  condition.  She  knew  he  belonged  to  the  de 
feated  army,  whose  disastrous  conflict  had  reached  her 
ears.  But  amid  all  her  suspense  she  had  this  ray  of 
comfort,  "  Perhaps  William  has  again  escaped  to  Hol 
land." 

But  now  the  worst  had  come.  There  was  no  lon 
ger  any  hope.  William  must  die.  She  bowed  beneath 
the  horrid  intelligence  like  the  lily  before  the  rushing 
storm.  She  sat  as  one  stupified.  Her  father  and 
mother  and  dear  Mrs.  Gaunt  endeavored  to  draw  her 
mind  away  from  her  trouble  to  feed  on  the  promises  of 
Christ.  But  grief  had  absorbed  every  other  feeling 
and  emotion.  She  heard  their  words,  but  they  inade 
no  impression. 

She  only  knew  that  William  Dormer  must  die. 

She  consented  to  go  to  London.  Indeed,  it  was  the 
only  thing  that  seemed  to  arrest  her  attention.  Prepara 
tions  were  made,  and  the  next  day  Mary  and  her  father 
set  out  with  Mrs.  Gaunt  for  the  city.  They  traveled 
as  fast  as  they  could.  The  roads  were  in  good  condi 
tion,  and  at  night-fall  they  reached  their  destination. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

THE       MEETING      BETWEEN      MARY      AND 
WILLIAM      DORMER. 

WITH  trembling  step  and  faltering  heart,  Mary  Bun- 
yan  set  out  with  Mrs.  Gaunt,  on  the  morning  after  her 
arrival  in  London,  to  visit  the  prisoner. 

But  few  words  were  spoken  as  the  two  hurried  along 
the  crowded  street  toward  the  prison.  Mary  clung 
closely  to  her  friend  for  protection  from  the  jostling 
crowd.  Mrs.  Gaunt  had  not  forgotten  the  poor  sick 
man,  to  whom  she  had  for  some  time  ministered  daily. 
She  carried  with  her  a  bucket  of  broth,  and  her  salve 
and  lint. 

"  Are  we  almost  there,  Mrs.  Gaunt  ?"  asked  Mary, 
timidly,  her  voice  trembling  with  the  dread  that 
pressed  upon  her  heart. 

"  "We  will  be  there  before  long,  Mary  ;  it  is  a  good 
walk  from  my  house.  Are  you  tired,  child  ?  Per 
haps  I  walk  too  fast  for  you." 

"  I  do  feel  tired,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  for  I  did  not  sleep 
much  last  night ;  but  we  will  hurry  on  and  get  there 
as  soon  as  we  can.  I  do  not  love  to  walk  these 
crowded  streets." 

Just  then  a  carriage  passed,  driving  in  the  direction 
of  the  prison.  The  occupants,  an  elderly  man  and  a 

(421) 


4:22  MARY   BUNYAN. 

young  female  clad  in  deep  mourning,  recognized  Mrs 
Gaunt.  They  bade  the  driver  halt,  and  calling  to  her, 
asked  her  and  her  friend  to  ride.  She  gladly  accepted 
the  invitation,  not  so  much  for  herself  as  for  Mary, 
whose  pale,  sad  face  and  faltering  step  attested  her 
weariness.  Old  Mr.  Kiffin  and  Miss  IIewlin<r  did  not 

o 

need  to  be  introduced  to  Mary.  They  immediately 
knew  her  to  be  the  blind  daughter  of  the  beloved 
Bunyan.  Mary  spoke  with  a  faint  voice  as  Mrs. 
Gaunt  called  the  name  of  her  friends,  and  then  drew 
herself  timidly  into  one  corner  of  the  carriage.  She 
did  not  wish  to  converse. 

"  You  are  on  your  daily  mission  of  good,  Sister 
Gaunt,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  kind  tone,  in  which 
there  was  a  blending  of  sorrow. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  do  what  little  I  can  -to  relieve  the 
dreadful  sufferings  of  the  wretched  unfortunates.  It  is 
but  little,  but  I  remember  a  cup  of  cold  water,  given 
in  the  name  of  my  Master,  will  not  fail  of  its  reward." 

"  Poor,  poor  creatures !  they  need  your  words  of 
comfort  and  your  kind  ministrations.  These  are  dark 
times  for  us,  Sister  Gaunt.  God  is  dealing  with  us 
very  severely.  William  Dormer  is  to  you  as  a  child  ; 
and  my  poor  boys,  God  knows  how  I  love  them  !"  and 
the  old  man  heaved  a  deep  sigh  painful  to  hear. 

At  the  name  of  William.  Dormer,  Mary  started  and 
reddened.  She  turned  her  head  towards  the  window 
to  escape  observation.  Tears  started  to  her  sightless 
eyes,  but  she  dashed  them  away.  She  did  not  wish  to 
betray  her  secret.  The  sister  of  the  two  young  Ilew- 
lings  wept  aloud. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  made  no  reply  to  the  remarks  of  the  old 
man.  She  did  not  wish  to  protract  a  conversation 


THE    MEETING.  423 

which  could  only  give  pain.  But  the  old  man's  heart 
was  too  full  of  his  deep  trials  to  remain  silent.  He 
must  speak. 

"  And  they  will  not  let  me  see  my  poor  dear  boys. 
I  have  been  twice  and  they  refused.  It  is  hard,  hard 
to  bear.  I  thought  we  would  go  again,  Hannah  and 
I ;  maybe  we  may  be  successful  this  time.  But  there 
is  not  much  hope.  Their  hearts  are  made  of  iron,  and 
they  delight  in  cruelty." 

Just  as  the  old  man  finished  his  sorrowful  remark, 
they  turned  into  a  wride  street  that  led  to  the  prison 
grounds.  As  they  did  so,  a  volley  of  railing  and 
cursing  met  their  ears.  Looking  out,  they  beheld  a 
most  painful  scene.  Four  poor  wretches,  pale,  and 
ready  to  faint  from  wounds  and  starvation,  loaded  with 
irons,  moved  slowly  on  towards  the  jail,  their  emaci 
ated  forms  scarcely  able  to  bear  the  weight  of  the 
chains  -and  manacles  which  their  furious  persecutors 
had  heaped  upon  them.  And  because  they  could  not 
proceed  faster,  they  were  lashed,  and  cursed,  and 
goaded  on. 

Shudderingly  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  turned 
away  from  the  revolting  spectacle.  No  remark  was 
made.  It  needed  no  comment.  "Well  it  was  for  Mary 
that  she  could  not  see  it.  She  heard  the  taunts  and 
curses  of  the  infuriated  crowd,  and  her  whole  body 
shook  with  dread. 

They  reached  the  outer  gate  of  the  prison,  and 
alighted.  As  soon  as  the  porter  saw  Mrs.  Gaunt,  he 
opened  the  gate,  and  she  and  Mary  passed  in.  He 
looked  suspiciously  on  the  other  two  as  they  followed. 

The  company  reached  the  second  gate,  and  knocked 
for  admittance.  As  the  heavy  door  swung  open  on  its 


424  MARY    BUNYAN. 

creaking  hinges,  Mary  shuddered.  Remembrances  of 
the  old  jail  at  Bedford  and  her  father's  sufferings 
rushed  across  her  mind,  and  filled  her  soul  with 
horror. 

The  four  passed  in,  and  were  met  by  one  of  the 
prison  guards,  who  eyed  from  head  to  foot  the  three 
new  personages.  Mrs.  Gaunt  had  so  long  been  accus 
tomed  to  pass  in  and  out,  that  all  the  attendants,  and 
many  of  the  inmates,  had  come  to  know  her  well. 

"  Who  is  this  you  have  with  you,  Mrs.  Gaunt  ?"  the 
man  asked,  as  Mary  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  good 
woman. 

"  A  poor  blind  friend  of  mine,  who  has  come  with 
me  in  a  morning  walk." 

"  The  blind  can  do  no  harm,"  he  muttered  to  him. 
self,  "  pass  on." 

Mrs.  Gaunt  and  Mary  proceeded  towards  the  door. 
The  two  were  about  to  follow  them. 

"  Your  name,  sir,"  said  the  man,  with  something 
of  politeness  in  his  manner.  "  Have  you  permission  to 
enter  ?" 

"  My  name  is  William  Kiffin,  and  I  have  no  authority 
to  enter.  But  I  hope  you  will  suffer  me  to  do  so.  I 
have  two  dear  boys  here  that  I  wish  to  see,  if  it  is  but 
for  a  few  moments.  Do  suffer  me  to  go  in,"  he  added, 
most  imploringly. 

"  I  will  see,  sir." 

The  man  turned  into  a  little  office.  He  was  gone 
but  a  moment. 

As  he  emerged  from  it,  another  officer  followed. 
Instantly  the  old  man  recognized  him  as  the  captain 
who  had  taunted  him  so  shamefully  a  few  days  before 
He  knew  all  hope  was  gone  now.  He  read  in  the  eye 


THE   MEETING.  425 

of  his  brutal  tormentor  a  savage  delight  in  his  power 
to  torture.  Yet  he  would  ask. 

"  "We  wish  to  see  the  Hewlings.     Can  we  do  it  ?" 

"  If  you  have  permission,  sir,  replied  the  officer,  with 
a  cold,  derisive  scorn. 

"  I  have  no  permission.  But  cannot  you  suffer  me 
to  enter  ?" 

"  No,  I  cannot.  The  command  is  that  you  shall  not 
see  the  rebels.  And  now  I  tell  you,  old  man,  you 
need  not  come  again.  This  is  the  second  or  third  time 
you  have  troubled  me,  and  if  you  do  it  again,  it  will 
not  be  well  for  you.  How  did  you  get  this  far  on  your 
way  ?" 

The  old  man  made  no  reply  to  this  insulting  ques 
tion.  Mrs.  Gaunt,  who  had  listened  at  the  door  until 
her  friends  could  be  answered,  saw  the  hopelessness  of 
the  case,  and  turned  to  add  her  entreaties  to  those  of 
the  old  man.  But  she  could  not  be  heard. 

11  Get  you  along,  old  woman,  or  I  will  turn  you  out. 
But  who  is  that  you  have  got  with  you  ?" 

"  A  blind  friend,  whom  I  brought  out  for  the  walk." 

"  Blind  !  ha,  ha.     Well,  go  in,  go  in  !" 

"  Will  you  not  suffer  us  to  go  in  this  once  ?"  implored 
the  young  girl. 

"No,  I  tell  you;  you  shall  not  go  in.  It  is  not 
worth  your  while  to  stand  here  asking,  for  I  tell  you 
again,  it  has  been  forbidden,  and  there  is  no  hope." 

The  old  man  stood  irresolute.  The  young  girl  wept 
bitterly. 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  enter  !"  she  sobbed  out.  "  Just  this 
once !  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  us  see  my  poor  brothers  ! 
Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  do  !" 


426 


MARY    BUNYAN. 


"  1  tell  you,  I  cannot  do  it.  My  instructions  forbid 
it,  and  it  is  useless  for  you  to  ask." 

Still  the  old  man  plead.  He  felt  that  he.  must  once 
more  see  the  darlings  of  his  heart,  and  hear  from  them 
the  dealings  of  God  with  their  souls.  But  the  harsh 
man  was  inexorable. 

While  they  were  thus  parleying,  the  door  opened, 
and  the  four  captives  were  marched  in. 

"  Get  you  gone,  old  man !  See,  here  is  more  for  me 
to  do.  I  tell  you,  I  will  not  let  you  in.  So  be  off,  and 
do  not  waste  my  time.  Ah  ha,"  he  added,  as  if  gloating 
in  his  diabolical  work.  "  And  so  they  have  caught 
some  more  of  the  devilish  fellows  !" 

The  old  man  wept  like  a  child,  as  he  turned  to  pass 
out.  The  maiden  leaned  on  his  arm,  while  stifled  sobs 
burst  from  her  bosom.  The  door  closed  behind  them. 
They  never  entered  it  again. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  and  Mary  entered  the  narrow,  dark  pas 
sage  that  led  to  the  cells  of  the  prisoners.  With 
frightened  tread  and  suppressed  breath,  Mary  glided 
noiselessly  along  behind  her  friend.  She  did  not  dare 
to  speak. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  poor  old  man, 
as  he  lay  on  his  pallet  of  straw  in  the  large  room 
where  the  sick  were  kept.  She  handled  him  as  ten 
derly  as  a  mother,  yet  the  poor  sufferer  groaned  with 
intense  pain.  She  then  gave  him  a  little  broth. 

He  looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thanked  her.  "  Not 
here  long,  good  woman,"  he  said  feebly.  She  was 
aware  of  this.  A  few  hours  more  must  terminate  his 
sufferings. 

"  Willing  to  go  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  yes." 


THE   MEETING.  42  T 

"Well,  then,  all  is  well." 

He  smiled  faintly,  and  repeated  her  words,  "All 
well,  all  well." 

She  passed  round  among  the  other  sick,  giving  a  cup 
of  water  to  one,  a  drink  of  broth  to  another,  and  in 
various  ways  soothing  their  pains,  always  speaking  a 
word  of  consolation. 

"  Let  me  see  the  young  man  that  came  in  a  few  days 
since." 

"  Which,  one  of  those  two  brothers  ?" 

"No,  his  name  is  William  Dormer." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  and  the  man  opened  the  door,  and  gave 
her  directions  how  to  proceed.  He  did  not  go  with 
her,  for  just  then  the  attending  physician  came  in,  and 
he  had  to  remain  to  answer  his  questions  with  regard 
to  the  patients. 

As  they  were  groping  their  way  along  the  dark 
aisle,  they  met  one  of  the  prison  attendants. 

"  Show  us  to  William  Dormer's  cell,  will  you,  if  you 
please,"  Mrs.  Gaunt  asked. 

The  man  answered  kindly,  and  led  the  way. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go  in  and  see  the  prisoner  ?"  he 
inquired,  as  they  stopped  in  front  of  the  cell. 

"  We  should  like  to  do  so." 

The  young  man,  who  had  known  Mrs.  Gaunt  for 
many  years,  opened  the  cell  door.  She  entered. 

"  Does  this  young  woman  wish  to  go  in  too  ?" 

Mrs.  Gaunt  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  no  breach  of  the  regulations, 
as  she  is  with  you,  Mrs.  Gaunt." 

Mary  followed. 

William  had  arisen  from  his  low  stool  at  the  first 
sound  of  Mrs.  Gaunt's  voice.  He  could  see  the  two 


4:28  MAKT   BUNYAN. 

forms,  and  knew  one  was  Mary's.  As  she  entered,  he 
sprung  forward.  "  Mary  !"  "  William  !"  were  the 
only  words  that  were  heard,  as  he  clasped  the  trem 
bling  form  and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom. 

ISTot  another  word  was  spoken  as  they  stood  locked 
in  each  other's  embrace.  The  keeper  looked  on 
amazed.  Mrs.  Gaunt,  overcome,  sunk  on  the  low  stool 
beside  her. 

Tears  of  joy  streamed  down  Mary's  cheeks,  as  she 
leaned  on  the  breast  of  him  she  loved.  It  was  happi 
ness  to  hear  him  once  more  call  her  name,  and  feel  his 
warm  breathings  on  her  cheek. 

William  seated  her  tenderly  on  his  low  bed,  and  sat 
beside  her,  placing  his  arm  around  her,  and  pressing 
her  to  him.  He  gazed  in  her  face  by  the  dim  light,  and 
as  he  did  so,  he  marked  the  changes  sorrow  had  made. 
He  kissed  her  burning  cheek  and  beating  brow  again 
and  again. 

"  I  may  not  see  you  more,  Mary,  my  dear,  dear 
Mary,  and  I  cannot  be  formal  now." 

"  Oh,  my  William,  say  not  this  to  me  !"  she  ex 
claimed,  as  she  started  from  her  seat,  impelled  by  the 
intensity  of  her  emotion.  William  drew  her  gently  to 
him  and  smoothed  back  her  hair,  and  kissed  her  ten 
derly. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mary.  We  must  not  hope  for  too 
much.  Our  persecutors  are  fierce  and  cruel." 

"  Oh,  William,  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  !"  the  ag 
onized  girl  exclaimed,  as  she  lay  sobbing  on  his  bosom. 

It  was  a  fearful  rack  to  the  poor  prisoner.  He  would 
freely  have  yielded  up  his  life,  could  that  but  have 
saved  the  loved  one  from  suffering. 

"  We  must  try,  my  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  speaking  in 


THE   MEETING.  429 

a  cheerful,  soothing  tone,  "  to  say  as  did  our  blessed 
Master,  '  Not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done.' " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Gaunt,  "  the  Lord  is  good 
and  infinite  in  wisdom.  He  knows  what  is  best  for  us 
his  poor  children.  Oh,  that  he  will  give  us  all  his 
grace,  that  we  may  say,  '  Even  so  father,  for  thus  it 
seerneth  good  in  thy  sight.'  Our  ways  are  in  his  hands. 
He  ordereth  our  footsteps,  and  he  hath  a  purpose  in  all 
the  trials  he  sends  us.  They  work  out  my  children,  a 
far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory  for  us. 
Let  us  trust  Him  at  this  dark  hour,  as  we  have  always 
done.  He  will  not  leave  nor  forsake  us." 

These  words  of  her  friend  served  somewhat  to  soothe 
Mary.  She  raised  her  band,  and  seeking  the  face  of 
William  passed  it  carefully  over  it,  as  if  to  impress  on 
her  mind  forever  every  lineament  of  that  loved  yet 
unseen  face.  When  she  reached  the  long,  stiff  beard, 
she  started  with  surprise,  and  withdrew  her  hand  sud 
denly,  but  then  replaced  it,  and  traced  Again  every  fea 
ture.  It  was  a  simple  act,  yet  so  touching,  that  the 
guide  turned  aside  to  hide  his  starting  tears. 

"  Leave  us  alone  with  William  for  a  little  while, 
won't  you,  sir  ?"  Mrs.  Gaunt  asked  of  the  man. 

The  man  bowed  assent,  and  strode  up  the  narrow 
passage. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  the  goodness  of  God,  my  children," 
said  Mrs.  Gaunt,  as  the  dull,  heavy  footfalls  died  out 
in  the  distance.  "  We  wall  not  dwell  on  the  future, 
except  to  ask  his  guidance  and  care.  We  will  praise 
his  holy  name  for  what  he  has  done  for  us  in  the  past. 
He  has  led  us,  my  boy,  through  many  trials,  and  now 
he  has  permitted  us  to  meet  once  more  on  earth.  And 


430  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

although  we  are  surrounded  by  affliction  and  trials,  yet 
his  presence  is  near." 

"  Yes,  God  has  been  kind  to  me,"  replied  "William, 
"  and  I  would  call  upon  all  within  me  to  bless  and 
magnify  his  great  name.  He  can  make  a  prison  a  pal 
ace,  of  a  truth.  I  have  never  had  more  spiritual  en 
joyment  in  my  life  than  I  have  had  since  I  came  into 
this  prison." 

"William  sat  with  his  arms  around  Mary,  while  she 
leaned  her  head  trustingly  on  his  bosom.  With  the 
other  hand  he  held  the  thin,  pale  hand  of  the  trem 
bling  girl.  lie  gazed  upon  her  darkened  face,  so  pale 
and  grief-marked,  with  a  look  of  indescribable  earnest 
ness  and  love.  The  strong  man  within  him  bowed,  as 
he  thought  of  what  she  had  suffered  for  him,  and  the 
tears  coursed  each  other  silently  down  his  face.  Could 
he  but  have  this  gentle,  loving  being  with  him  always, 
he  would  care  naught  for  his  prison.  It  would  possess 
no  gloom,  no  horror.  As  he  thought  thus,  he  drew  her 
closer  and  closer  to  him. 

How  beautiful  to  see  two  such  loving  hearts  cling  to 
each  other  with  tenderness  and  constancy,  increased  a 
thousand  fold  by  the  gloom,  and  trials  that  surroun 
ded  them.  Yet  how  painful  to  know,  that  that  gloom 
and  those  trials  should  know  no  brightening,  and  no 
cessation,  until  the  grave  should  close  over  the  pulse 
less  bosoms  of  those  who  had  loved  through  danger 
and  separation,  and  would  love  on  to  the  last ! 

The  three  spoke  of  the  past  and  the  present.  What 
was  to  be,  they  dared  not  look  out  upon.  Each  endeav 
ored  to  be  cheerful,  for  the  sake  of  the  others.  Their 
words  were  more  of  thankfulness  and  comfort,  than  of 
hope. 


THE    MEETING.  431 

Thus  they  sat  and  conversed  for  some  time.  Mary 
all  the  while  leaning  on  the  bosom  of  William.  She 
did  not  often  speak.  It  was  happiness  enough  for  her 
to  lie  and  listen  to  the  rich  tones  of  his  manly  voice, 
as  they  gushed  forth,  softened  in  their  accent  by  love. 
After  some  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed,  the 
footsteps  of  the  conductor  were  heard  approaching. 
The  two  friends  knew  it  was  the  signal  for  their  depar 
ture,  and  Mrs.  Gaunt,  giving  "William  some  words  of 
consolation,  and  promising  to  come  the  next  day  and 
bring  Mary  with  her,  rose,  and  gathered  up  her 
bucket,  and  reticule  of  salve  and  bandages.  Mary 
clung  to  William  as  long  as  she  could.  Her  heart 
misgave  her  about  seeing  him  on  the  morrow.  Oh, 
how  he  strained  her  to  him  !  It  seemed  he  could  not 
let  her  go  away.  But  the  voice  of  the  guide  was  heard 
commanding  them  to  leave. 

Mary  put  up  her  hand  as  before,  and  passed  it 
slowly  over  William's  face.  As  she  did  so>  her  sight 
less,  streaming  eyes  were  turned  to  his.  He  stooped 
over  her,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  A  second 
command  was  given.  She  tore  herself  from  him,  and 
Math  one  wild  shriek,  passed  out  into  the  passage. 

When  Mary  reached  Mrs.  Gaunt's,  she  was  prostrate. 
She  fell  on  the  low  bed  like  one  lifeless — one  whom 
grief  had  deprived  of  consciousness.  Her  father,  who 
knew  it  was  useless  for  him  to  accompany  them  to 
prison,  and  who,  during  their  absence,  had  gone  out 
to  visit  a  friend  of  his,  Mr.  Strudwick,  had  not  yet 
returned. 

John  Burton,  his  wife  and  daughter,  were  yet  there, 
but  did  not  dare  to  move  from  their  hiding-place. 
Mrs.  Gaunt  endeavored  to  arouse  Mary.  But  all  her 


432  MARY   BUNYAN. 

efforts  were  unavailing.  A  dead  stupefaction  had 
seized  her,  which  rendered  her  incapable,  body  and 
mind,  of  any  action.  Her  father  was  greatly  distressed 
to  find  his  daughter  in  such  a  fearful  condition.  But 

o 

he  knew  the  only  cure  was  repose.  A  stimulating 
draught  was  administered,  after  which  she  sunk  into 
a  quiet  slumber. 

Poor  William  !  we  will  not  look  back  into  his  dreary 
prison  cell.  It  were  torture  to  do  so.  God  alone 
knows  the  anguish  of  his  true  heart,  as  he  sat  there 
through  the  long  weary  hours  of  the  night,  thinking  of 
his  beloved  Mary  and  the  death  which  inevitably 
awaited  him. 

About  midnight,  as  he  was  thinking,  his  reflections 
were  interrupted  by  a  confused  noise  in  that  portion  of 
the  prison  where  he  lodged,  and  footsteps  and  sounds 
were  heard  approaching  his  cell  door.  A  light  flashed 
in  upon  him.  His  door  was  unlocked,  and  the  gruff 
voice  of  Captain  Richardson  bade  him  follow  him. 
William  threw  his  clothes  about  him,  and  did  as  he 
was  commanded.  When  he  reached  the  court-yard, 
he  found  other  prisoners  assembled,  among  whom  he 
recognized  the  faces  of  the  two  Hewlings.  Without  a 
word  of  explanation,  they  were  marched  out  of  the 
prison  yards,  and  placed  in  wagons,  which  bore  them 
rapidly  away.  They  did  not  know  but  it  was  to  the 
scaffold. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

THE       SEARCH. 

WHILE  these  scenes  were  transpiring  at  Newgate, 
the  little  family  of  Mrs.  Gaunt  slept  sweetly.  Mary, 
overcome  by  fatigue  and  sorrow,  had  fallen  into  a  pro 
found  slumber.  Mrs.  Gaunt  lay  beside  her.  Bunyan, 
having  committed  all  to  the  keeping  of  God,  slept 
soundly.  The  fugitives  were  apart,  in  a  little  back 
room,  enjoying  rest  in  their  fancied  security. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Gaunt  was  aroused  from  her  slum 
bers  by  a  fierce  knocking  at  her  front  door.  She 
threw  on  her  dress,  and  went  to  seek  the  cause. 

"  Another  poor  soldier  of  the  cross,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

But  alas !  no.  It  was  the  officers  of  the  law,  in 
search  of  John  Burton. 

"  "We  come  in  the  name  of  the  King  and  the  laws  of 
our  land,  to  search  your  house  over  for  one  of  the 
rebels,  whom  we  hear  you  have  secreted,"  said  one  of 
the  officers,  as  soon  as  she  had  opened  the  door. 

"  But  you  will  not  disturb  a  poor,  peacable,  unpro 
tected  woman,  sirs  ?" 

"  Away  with  you  !  let  us  in.  We  are  after  the  vile 
rebels." 

"  But  wait  until  I  can  get  you  a  light,"  said  Mrs. 
Gaunt,  turning  round  to  go  to  her  kitchen.  She 
F4331  19 


434:  MARY   BUNYAN. 

wished  to  arouse  Burton  and  his  family,  and  bid  them 
escape. 

"!Nb,  we'll  not  wait.  We've  got  a  light  here. 
You  can't  deceive  us,  you  old  hag.  We  know  well 
enough  that  fellow  is  here,  and  we'll  have  him,  too," 
and  the  speaker  swore  violently. 

They  forced  themselves  in.  Burton  and  his  wife  had 
been  aroused  by  the  noise  wThen  it  was  first  heard  at 
the  door.  They  sprung  from  their  beds,  awoke  the 
daughter,  who,  like  her  parents,  had  slept  in  her  dress, 
and  climbing  out  over  the  back  fence,  made  good  their 
escape,  and  were  soon  lost  in  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
of  that  part  of  the  city.  They  had  barely  time  to  elude 
their  pursuers.  And  had  it  not  been  for  the  manage 
ment  of  Mrs.  Gaunt,  who  led  the  officers  to  every  other 
room  first,  and  caused  them  to  search  thoroughly,  they 
would  have  been  overtaken. 

They  were  elated  with  joy  when  they  entered  the 
room  where  Bunyan  lay.  "  Here  is  the  rascal !"  ex 
claimed  the  foremost  man.  "We  have  caught  him 
napping,  ah,  ha!  Come,  let's  take  him  before  he  wakes 
up.  Come,  come !" 

"You  are  mistaken,  friends,"  said  Bunyan,  rising, 
and  looking  the  man  in  the  face  by  the  light  of  his 
lantern.  "  I  am  a  peaceable  citizen.  But  tell  me,  for 
whom  do  you  search  ?" 

"  For  that  vile  rascal,  John  Burton." 

"  You  will  not  find  him  here,"  said  Bunyan  calmly, 
who  had  seen  from  his  window  the  fugitives  leap  the 
fence. 

With  horrid  imprecations  and  cursings  the  officers 
passed  on  to  search  the  out-buildings.  Their  rago 


THE    SEARCH.  435 

knew  no  bounds  when  they  found  they  were  defeated 
of  their  prey. 

Swearing  vengeance  against  all  rebels,  and  calling 
on  high  heaven  to  visit  them  with  most  horrid  torture 
if  they  did  not  find  out  and  bring  to  justice  "the 
wretch,  John  Burton,"  they  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE    ARREST. 

WHAT  a  wise  providence  that  the  day  of  our  death  is 
hidden  from  us.  Life  were  one  eternal  dread,  else. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  arose,  and  went  about  her  morning  work 
as  usual,  feeling  grateful  to  God  that  he  had  enabled 
one  of  his  servants  to  thwart  the  rigor  of  the  law.  She 
prepared  her  pot  of  broth,  and  gathered  together  her 
lint  and  bandages. 

Soon  after  their  humble  breakfast,  she  and  Mary  set 
out  for  the  prison.  Mary  was  stronger  than  on  the 
preceding  day,  having  been  much  benefitted  by  her 
night's  sleep.  Bunyan  walked  out  into  the  city  to  seek 
the  house  of  Mr.  Baffin. 

The  hope  of  again  being  beside  "William  Dormer, 
and  listening  to  his  voice,  gave  Mary  new  life.  On  the 
two  hasted.  They  reached  the  prison,  and  entered 
uninterrupted.  Mrs.  Gaunt  found  the  poor  man,  whom 
she  had  so  long  tended,  had  died  during  the  night,  and 
now  lay  ready  for  the  grave.  But  there  were  others 
there  that  claimed  her  care  and  kindness,  for  there  was 
at  that  time  great  suffering  at  Newgate.  She  dealt 
out  her  broth,  dressed  the  wounds  of  the  poor  soldiers, 
and  after  having  seen  that  all  were  as  comfortable  as 
her  limited  aid  could  make  them,  she  and  Mary  went 

[436] 


THE   ARKEST.  437 

to  seek  William  Dormer's  cell.  Just  as  they  gained  the 
landing  beyond  the  hospital  room,  they  encountered 
Mr.  Nardley.  He  spoke  to  them  very  kindly. 

Mrs.  Gaunt  asked  to  be  shown  to  William  Dormer's 
cell. 

"  He  is  not  here,  Mrs.  Gaunt.  He  and  the  Hew- 
lings  left  at  midnight,  last  night,  for  Salisbury." 

Mary  fell  like  one  suddenly  deprived  of  life.  Mrs. 
Gaunt  stood  for  a  moment  in  consternation.  Recover 
ing  her  senses,  she  bade  Mr.  Nardley  run  for  some  water. 
With  superhuman  strength  she  lifted  Mary  and  placed 
her  in  the  fresh  air.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  the  spotless 
handkerchief  which  covered  her  beautiful  neck.  Her 
eyes  were  closed,  and  she  gave  no  signs  of  life.  For  a 
moment  Mrs.  Gaunt  feared  she  was  dead.  But  undo 
ing  her  dress,  she  found  that  her  heart  still  pulsated, 
though  slowly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  ISTardley  run,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  heard  the  guard  approaching.  "  Call  Mr.  Dra 
per,  he  is  in  the  sick  room.  My  poor  child  will  die 
unless  she  is  relieved." 

Mr.  ISTardley  hurriedly  obeyed  her  instructions,  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  physician  was  beside  the  pros 
trate  girl.  He  applied  restoratives,  and  rubbed  and 
chafed  her  hands  and  temples.  It  was  some  time  before 
Mary  gave  any  signs  of  returning  life.  Slowly  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  motioned  her  lips.  Mrs.  Gaunt 
bent  over  her  to  catch  the  sound.  "  William  "  was  the 
only  word  she  could  understand. 

"  Take  me  from  here,  Mrs.  Gaunt,"  she  faintly  whis 
pered,  "  I  shall  die." 

Dr.  Draper,  who  was  through  with  his  morning  visit, 


4:38  MARY    BUNYAN. 

proposed  to  take  the  two  females  home  in  his  carriage, 
which  offer  was  gladly  accepted  by  Mrs.  Gaunt. 

When  they  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  Gaunt's  cot 
tage,  the  blind  girl  was  able  to  walk  to  her  bed. 
Bunyan  was  awaiting  his  daughter's  return,  having 
concluded  to  take  Mary  with  him  to  see  his  old  friend, 
Mr.  Kiffin.  He  was  horror-struck  at  her  changed  look. 
He  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  placed  her  on  the  bed, 
and  bent  over  with  all  the  tenderness  of  his  great 
heart,  chafing  her  hands  and  smoothing  back  the  hair 
from  the  clammy  forehead. 

As  soon  as  she  slept,  he  stole  away  to  ask  of  Mrs. 
Gaunt  the  cause.  She  told  him  all. 

"  Ah,  poor  William !"  he  exclaimed,  as  she  con 
cluded  her  recital,  "  and  my  poor  child  !  she  will  never 
recover  from  this  stroke.  God  is  going  to  visit  me 
again  with  trial.  May  he  give  me  grace  to  bear  me 
through,  and  to  glorify  his  name  in  all  my  afflictions." 

He  had  but  finished  speaking,  when  the  sound  of 
loud  voices  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  in  a  moment 
more,  two  men  entered  the  front  room. 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Gaunt  ?"  one  of  them  asked, 
approaching  the  terrified  woman. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name." 

"  By  the  authority  of  this  good  commonwealth  I 
arrest  you,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  for  harboring  rebels." 

She  spoke  not,  but  stood  gazing  at  the  men  who 
addressed  her,  as  one  bewildered. 

"  Who  gave  you  information,  men,  against  this  poor 
woman  ?"•  asked  Bunyan. 

"  John  Burton,  his  wife,  and  daughter,  whom  she  has 
harbored  these  past  three  days." 


THE   ARREST.  439 

Banyan  remonstrated  and  entreated.  But  the  hard 
hearted  men  remained  unmoved. 

"  "We  don't  let  such  birds  loose,  I  tell  you,  old  man, 
and  you  needn't  stand  there  talking.  Come,  eorne, 
woman,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  Get  on  your  hood, 
and  come  along,  or  else  we'll  take  you  as  you  are." 

Mrs.  Gaunt  obeyed.  She  saw  any  opposition  was 
useless.  Commending  Bunyan  and  Mary  to  God,  she 
bade  them  farewell,  and  left  with  the  officers. 

She  was  hurried  before  the  tribunal,  questioned,  and 
sent  to  Newgate.  In  less  than  four  hours  after  she  and 
Mary  left  the  prison  with  Dr.  Draper,  she  was  an 
inmate  of  the  cell  William  Dormer  had  occupied. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE    J  0  U  »  N  E  Y    TO     SALISBURY. 

"  OH  tliat  I  could  go,  father — that  I  could  once  more 
hear  his  voice !"  was  the  burning  exclamation  of  Mary 
as  she  fell  upon  the  bosom  of  her  parent. 

They  had  been  speaking  of  William  Dormers  re 
moval  West,  in  order  to  his  trial. 

The  obstacles  in  the  way  of  such  an  undertaking  were 
very  great.  Besides,  there  was  no  assurance  that  the 
father  and  daughter  would  reach  Salisbury  before  a 
trial  had  taken  place,  and  probably  an  execution.  This 
was  the  father's  apprehension,  but  he  did  not  name  it 
to  his  poor  blind  child.  Her  weight  of  grief  was  now 
overwhelming,  he  would  not  add  another  pang. 

Bunyan  had  not  encouraged  Mary  in  her  oft-repeated 
wish.  But  now  that  he  fully  understood  how  earnest 
was  her  desire  he  hesitated  no  longer. 

"  And  you  shall  go,  my  child,  and  may  God  grant 
his  blessing,"  he  said,  while  he  strained  the  weeping 
girl  to  his  breast  and  the  tears  coursed  down  his  face. 
"  I  will  go  with  you,  my  daughter.  We  must  do  what 
we  can,  and  leave  the  result  with  Him  who  ordereth  all 
things  according  to  his  wisdom.  And  we  must  lose  no 
time,  my  child.  It  will  not  do  to  delay." 

Necessary  preparation  was  hastily  made,  and  Bunyan 
and  his  blind  girl  set  out  on  their  journey. 
[440] 


THE  JOURNEY   TO    SALISBURY.  441 

Long  and  weary  were  the  miles  over  which  they 
passed  on  their  journey  westward.  But  the  hope  of 
once  more  meeting  William  buoyed  up  Mary  under 
the  arduous  travel.  This  gave  courage  to  her  heart, 
and  strength  to  her  feeble  step,  as  on  and  on  tliey  went. 

On  and  on  they  went,  'neath  the  scorching  rays  of 
an  August  sun.  Mary  felt  no  fatigue.  The  father  en 
deavored  all  the  while  to  stay  the  heart  of  his  daughter 
in  the  precious  promises  of  the  Gospel,  thereby  to  pre 
pare  her  for  whatever  might  await  her  in  the  future. 
But  the  state  of  her  mind  was  such  that  she  could  not  lay 
hold  on  these  words  of  eternal  life  and  love.  She  could 
not  think ;  she  could  only  hope  and  fear  alternately. 
The  father  believed  that  there  was  but  little  prospect 
for  William's  acquittal,  and  he  could  not  raise  expecta 
tions  which  he  felt  must  assuredly  fail. 

Ah !  it  was  a  heavy  task  for  a  loving  father's  heart. 
But  Bunyan  recognized  that  it  was  God  who  afflicted, 
and  was  still. 

They  had  had  a  fatiguing  day's  trip,  sometimes  riding 
and  then  again  finding  their  way  on  foot,  striving  by 
all  possible  means  to  hasten  onward.  They  were  now 
nearing  Salisbury.  Mary  was  seated  beside  her  father 
in  a  small  wagon,  into  which  they  had  been  asked  by 
the  kindness  of  a  peasant,  who,  observing  the  weary 
condition  of  the  sightless  girl,  and  understanding  whither 
they  were  bound,  offered  to  take  them  to  their  destina 
tion. 

Bunyan  longed  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the 
peasant.  He  wished  to  ask  him  the  news  of  the  place 
— whether  the  prisoners  had  been  taken  to  Salisbury, 
and  if  there  had  yet  been  any  executions.  But  lie 
dared  not  do  it,  lest,  if  the  intelligence  should  be 


44:2  MARY    BUNYAN. 

adverse,  Mary  might  sink  under  it,  away  from  any 
means  of  assistance.  And  tlie  poor  girl's  lieart  was 
bursting  to  ask,  but  she  feared  to  do  so. 

They  had  rode  in  silence  for  some  distance,  each 
engaged  in  thought,  when  suddenly  Mary  laid  her  hand 
on  her  father,  and  turning  her  sealed  eyes  up  to  his, 
exclaimed : 

"  Father,  do  you  think  "William  is  yet  alive  ?" 

"  I  can't  say,  my  child — but  I  will  ask  this  man. 
He  will  be  likely  to  know."  And  elevating  his  voice, 
he  addressed  the  driver  : 

"  Do  you  know  whether  any  prisoners  have  reached 
Salisbury  from  London  ?" 

"  Yes,  there  were  five  brought  down  here  last 
week." 

"  And   are   they   yet   in  prison  ?"   asked    Bunyan, 
tremblingly. 

"  They  are  still  there,  for  they  haven't  yet  had  their 
trial.  I  heard  to-day,  as  I  came  through  the  town, 
that  they  were  all  to  be  taken  to  Dorchester  to  be  tried 
there." 

"  They  haven't  had  a  trial  then  ?"  remarked  Bunyan, 
in  a  manner  as  indifferent  as  he  could  assume.  His 
heart  was  filled  with  joy  to  know  that  William  yet 
lived. 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  1"  Mary  exclaimed,  invol 
untarily  rising  from  her  seat.  She  felt  that  "William 
could  yet  live.  She  would  plead  for  his  life,  and 
surely,  surely,  they  could  not  resist  her  earnest 
appeals. 

"  Look  to  God  in  thankfulness,"  said  her  father  to 


TIIK   JOUKNEY   TO   SALISBURY.  44:3 

her.  "  It  is  a  grant  of  mercy,  my  child,  that  "William 
still  lives."  Then,  turning  to  the  man,  he  asked  : 

"  When  are  the  prisoners  to  be  taken  to  Dorchester 
for  trial — did  you  say  ?" 

"  In  a  few  days  more — maybe  to-morrow.  I  don't 
know  certainly,  but  they  told  me  in  Salisbury  this 
morning  it  would  be  soon.  All  the  town  was  in 
excitement,  sir,  when  these  rebels  were  brought  in. 
The  people  wanted  to  hang  them  without  a  trial,  and  it 
was  hard  to  keep  them  from  it,  I  tell  you." 

The  heart  of  Mary  sunk,  and  her  cheek  blanched  as 
these  horrid  words  fell  on  her  ear. 

"There  is  but  little  hope  then,"  she  said  to  herself, 
while  her  heart  almost  ceased  its  beating  at  the  dread 
ful  thought. 

The  father  made  no  further  remarks,  and  again  the 
two  were  silent. 

"Take  us  to  the  inn,  friend,  if  you  please,"  said 
Bunyan,  in  reply  to  the  peasant's  inquiry. 

The  man  nodded  assent,  and  soon  he  landed  them 
before  the  door  of  a  heavy  old  building  bearing  the 
sign  of  the  "  Cross  and  Dragon." 

Mary  shuddered,  as  seated  in  the  large  front-room 
of  the  inn,  she  heard  the  loud  voices  of  the  inmates  of 
the  tap-room  in  a  discussion  with  regard  to  the  fate 
of  the  prisoners.  Some  contended  they  would  be 
hung  without  any  possibility  of  escape ;  others, 
declared  that  they  ought  to  be  burnt  at  the  stake ; 
others,  that  they  should  be  gibbeted,  and  hung  as 
malcontents.  Various  were  the  opinions  expressed 
as  to  the  manner  of  their  execution,  but  all  concurred 
in  the  opinion  that  they  deserved  death.  There  was 


444:  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

much  excitement — each  man  striving  to  be  loudest  and 
most  violent  in  his  denunciations  of  the  rebels. 

Bun  van  sought  the  face  of  his  Mary.  It  was  leaden 
pale  and  wore  a  look  of  horrid  fright.  For  a  moment 
he  knew  not  what  to  do.  To  stay  there  was  torture  to 
her.  She  was  too  faint  to  walk  in  the  streets.  Where 
to  find  security  from  the  angry  voices  he  knew  not. 
At  last  he  resolved  he  would  venture  into  the  room 
to  see  if  he  could,  by  any  means,  put  an  end  to  the 
matter.  Even  his  stout  heart  hesitated  to  take  the 
step.  It  was  a  dangerous  one,  for  infuriated  men  are 
always  unreasonable,  and  their  indignation  was  greatly 
increased  by  large  potations  from  the  ale-jug.  He 
rose,  reached  the  door  leading  into  the  tap-room — 
hesitated.  Just  then  a  noise  attracted  his  attention  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  room.  He  turned  to  look.  Two 
female  figures,  clad  in  deep  mourning,  entered.  He 
eyed  them  closely  for  a  moment,  "ies,  it  must  be 
them — he  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  approached 
them.  The  foremost  one  started  back  in  surprise  as 
he  stood  before  her. 

"  And  is  it  surely  you,  brother  Bunyan  ?"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  of  wonder.  "  Pray  tell  us  why  you  are 
here?" 

He  thought  of  his  poor,  suffering  child.  He  knew 
her  sensitiveness,  and  forbore  a  direct  answer ;  but 
leading  them  forward,  he  introduced  them  to  Mary. 
She  looked  up,  surprised,  while  a  faint  hue  overspread 
her  pale  cheek. 

It  was  all  understood,  No  farther  question  as  to 
the  presence  of  the  two  parties  was  necessary. 

"  We  go  to  prison  to  see  my  brothers,"  the  younger 
female  said,  in  a  sweet  sad  voice.  We  have  not  seen 


THE   JOUKNEY  TO   8ALISBUKY.  445 

William  and  Benjamin  since  they  were  made 
prisoners." 

"  And  can  you  gain  admittance  ?"  asked  Bunyan, 
eagerly. 

"  We  are  not  sure,  Brother  Bunyan,"  answered  the 
mother.  "  We  have  not  yet  made  an  effort.  But  \ve 
hope  the  Lord  will  prosper  ns.  It  would  be  hard  for 
my  darling  boys  to  die  without  my  seeing  them  once 
more." 

"  We  will  go  with  you,  sister  Hewling.  We  want 
to  see  oar  friend,  William  Dormer.  Come,  my  child," 
he  said,  taking  hold  of  Mary's  hand,  "  can  you  walk  to 
the  jail?" 

"  Oh  yes,  father,"  she  answered.  They  were  the 
first  cheerful  words  she  had  spoken  since  she  had 
heard  of  her  lover's  capture. 

They  asked  the  way  to  the  prison,  and  were  told  it 
was  situated  not  far  distant  from  the  inn. 

The  four  started,  and  they  had  no  difficulty  in  find 
ing  the  object  of  their  search.  Since  the  prisoners  had 
reached  Salisbury  the  old  jail  had  been  a  point  of 
intense  interest  to  every  villager,  from  the  oldest  to 
the  youngest. 

It  was  the  30th  of  August,  1685 — now  nearly  two 
centuries  ago — that  this  little  company  of  the  sorrow- 
stricken  children  of  God  sought,  mid  the  damps  and 
noisomeness  of  the  prison,  those  who  were  to  bear 
testimony,  even  unto  death,  of  their  love  to  Christ 
Jesus  and  His  glorious  Gospel.  The  sun  was  descend 
ing  the  western  horizon  as  they  passed  along  the 
streets  of  the  old  town  of  Salisbury.  Their  appearance 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  villagers,  and  various 
were  the  surmises  as  to  who  they  were.  It  was  evi- 


446  MAEY   BUNYAK. 

dent  they  were  burdened  with  some  great  grief.  The 
deep  mourning  of  two  of  the  females,  the  pale,  sad  face 
of  the  blind  girl,  and  the  bowed  head  of  the  father,  all 
betokened  this — and  prying  curiosity  dared  not  so  far 
intrude  itself  as  to  ask  the  cause  of  their  sorrow. 

They  reached  the  prison,  and  made  their  request 
known.  There  was  hesitation  and  consultation.  The 
hearts  of  the  applicants  grew  faint  as  they  stood  wait 
ing  for  an  answer.  At  length  a  man  dressed  in  the 
garb  of  a  prison-officer  appeared,  holding  in  his  hand 
a  bunch  of  old  keys,  and  told  them  they  might  enter. 

"With  shuddering,  the  females  followed  the  steps  of 
the  man  along  the  dark  and  narrow  passage  which  con 
ducted  them  to  a  little  yard,  around  which  the  prison 
cells  were  built. 

"  You  want  to  see  the  prisoners  that  came  doAvn 
from  London  last  week,  do  you  ?"  said  the  coarse, 
rough  man,  stopping  suddenly  before  a  row  of  narrow 
cells  and  turning  squarely  round  upon  the  visitors. 

"  Yes,"  Bunyan  replied.     "  The  three  young  men." 

"  Were  two  of  them  brothers  ?  I  believe  they  are 
in  here — and  the  other  is  farther  on.  Do  you  wish  to 
see  all  of  them  ?" 

"  We  want  to  see  the  two  brothers.  This  young 
lady  here,  in  black,  and  myself,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hewling. 

"  "Well,  you  must  see  them  one  at  a  time.  Then  come 
in  here  and  see  this  one,  while  this  old  man  and  girl 
go  to  the  other  cell.  But  I  can't  tell  what  she  wants 
to  go  for — she  can't  see  when  she  gets  there,"  and  he 
looked  on  Mary  with  his  little  gray  eyes  most  con 
temptuously. 

The  door  swung  back ;  the  females  entered.      There 


THE  JOT7JRNEY   TO   SALISBURY.  447 

on  a  low  couch,  by  the  faint  rays  of  light  struggling 
through  the  closely-barred  window,  they  beheld  the 
form  of  the  son  and  brother. 

"  Benjamin  ! — William  !"  the  mother  exclaimed, 
falling  upon  his  neck  and  bursting  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  My  mother  ! — my  sister !"  It  was  the  voice  of 
William,  her  youngest  son. 

"  Oh  !  "William,  William,  my  dear,  dear  brother  !" 
And  the  sister,  too,  fell  weeping  on  the  neck  of  the 
prisoner. 

"  Weep  not,  my  dear  mother  ;  and  you,  my  dear 
Hannah,  dry  your  tears.  I  suffer  for  God,  and  He 
hath  most  abundantly  rewarded  me  in  the  bestowment 
of  His  grace  and  comfort  to  my  soul.  I  can  glory  in 
my  afflictions,  for  Christ  dost  manifest  Himself  to  me 
in  a  most  precious  manner." 

"  And  your  poor  brother,  Benjamin  !  William,  how 
is  he?" 

"  Weak  in  body,  mother,  for  we  suffered  much 
while  we  were  in  Newgate,  and  on  our  way  here, 
being  loaded  with  heavy  irons  ;  but,  thank  Good,  he  is 
happy  in  mind — entirely  resigned  to  His  will,  saying  : 
'  Life  or  death — anything  which  pleaseth  God — what 
He  sees  best,  so  be  it.' ': 

"  When  did  you  see  him  last,  my  son  ?" 

"  Only  a  short  time  ago,  mother,  in  the  court-yard. 
We  are  allowed  a  half  hour,  morning  and  evening,  for 
exercise,  and  then  we  talk  over  these  glorious  prospects 
to  each  other,  and  try  to  strengthen  one  another  in  the 
most  holy  faith." 

"  Blessed  be  God,  for  this  great  mercy,"  exclaimed 


448  MART   BUNYAN. 

the  mother  and  sister,  growing  composed  under  the 
calm  words  of  the  prisoner. 

"  And  is  there  any  hope  for  you,  my  boy  ?" 

"  But  little  in  this  life,  mother.  I  do  not  believe  we 
shall  be  pardoned.  But  there  is  all  hope  of  the  life  to 
come  ;  for  there  joy  and  eternal  blessedness  await  us 
at  the  right  hand  of  God." 

They  remained  a  few  moment  longer  in  conversa 
tion,  when  the  turnke}7  appeared  and  told  them  they 
must  now  see  the  other  young  man,  if  they  wished  to, 
for  it  was  late,  and  they  could  not  stay  much  longer. 

Bidding  William  an  affectionate  farewell,  with  the 
hope  of  seeing  him  again  on  the  morrow,  they  followed 
the  turnkey  to  the  older  brother's  cell. 

They  found  him  as  William  had  said — calm,  yea 
rather  joyous  that  he  was  counted  worthy  to  suffer. 

While  we  leave  the  mother  and  sister  with  the  pris 
oner,  let  us  follow  Mary  and  her  father  to  the  cell  of 
William  Dormer. 

Clingingly  Mary  held  on  to  her  father  as  they  pro 
ceeded  along  the  narrow  alley  to  the  cell  of  the  lover. 
They  reached  it.  The  man  applied  the  key,  and  the 
ponderous  bolt  flew  back. 

"  A  man  and  lassie  from.  London  wish  to  see  you, 
prisoner,"  said  the  man,  gruffly. 

Bunyan  entered  and  accosted  William.  He  imme 
diately  recognized  the  voice,  and  returned  the  saluta 
tion.  Then,  springing  forward,  "  Mary  !"  he  exclaimed 
and  caught  her  to  his  bosom. 

For  a  minute  all  was  silent,  save  the  weeping  of 
the  lovers  as  they  stood  folded  in  each  other's  arms. 

The  man  locked  the  door  and  left  them  to  themselves. 

As  soon  as  the  first  passion  of  grief  was  over  Bun- 


THE  JOTJBNEY   TO   SALISBURY.  449 

yan  tried  to  cairn  the  prisoner  and  Mary  by  engaging 
them  in  conversation.  He  did  not  allude  to  the  proba 
ble  results  of  a  trial.  He  knew  that  the  bleeding  heart 
of  his  Mary  could  not  bear  it.  He  enquired  into  "Wil 
liam's  physical  and  spiritual  condition,  and  gave  to 
him  the  encouragements  of  the  Word  of  God,  which 
had  been  to  him  such  a  solace  when  imprisonment  en 
wrapped  him  in  its  gloom,  and  death  with  all  its  hor 
rors  stared  him  in  the  face. 

Mary  sat  beside  William — his  arm  encircled  her 
waist — her  hand  rested  in  his,  and  her  sweet,  sad  face, 
now  so  pale  and  worn  with  grief,  was  turned,  with  a 
look  of  deepest  love  and  sympathy,  up  to  his.  He 
gazed  upon  it — now  so  changed — arid  the  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes  and  coursed  down  his  manly  cheek.  He 
pressed  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  Mary,  my  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  "  the  hand  of  God 
is  heavy  upon  us.  But  whom  he  loveth,  he  chasten- 
eth,  Mary.  We  must  not  forget  that  God  is  good, 
though  he  deals  so  mysteriously  with  us." 

"  That  is  the  true  view  of  the  case,  William,"  re 
sponded  the  father.  "  God's  ways  are  hid  in  the  infi 
nite  depths  of  his  wisdom  and  we  cannot  find  him  out 
by  searching.  Our  business  is  to  know  that  he  is  God 
and  be  still." 

Mary  could  not  speak,  she  could  only  weep.  She  did 
not  see  how  it  could  be  best  that  William  should  die. 
Her  heart  rebelled  against  the  thought.  Oh,  horrid 
idea,  how  could  she  ever  submit !  "  My  grace  is  suf 
ficient"  was  not  her  stay  'mid  her  agony.  Ah,  it  was 
a  sore  temptation. 

William  asked  for  Mrs.  Gaunt.  Bunyan  had  to  break 


4:50  MAKY   BUNYAN. 

to  him  the  sad  story.  He  wept  like  a  child  as  he  heard 
of  the  sufferings  of  one  whom  he  loved  as  a  mother. 

"These  are  times  of  sore  visitation,  Bro.  13unyan,"he 
said.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  It  seems  as  if  the 
hand  of  God  is  turned  against  his  people.  Surely  Mrs. 
Gaunt  is  a  good  woman,  and  deserves  to  be  rewarded 
here  if  ever  a  woman  did." 

"  Say  not,  William,  that  the  hand,  of  God  is  against 
his  children,"  replied  the  man  of  God.  "We  must 
know  that  '  all  things,'  whatever  they  may  be,  whether 
tribulation,  or  persecution,  or  death,  work  together  for 
the  good  of  his  people.  In  eternity  we  shall  know  it 
all.  Now  we  must  trnst  and  pray  that  he  will  keep  us 
pure  and  unspotted  from  the  world,  and  make  us  wil 
ling  to  bear  all  things  for  his  name." 

The  three  knelt  and  Banyan  led  in  prayer.  From 
the  depths  of  his  tried  soul  he  poured  out  a  petition 
before  the  throne  of  the  Great  Mediator  for  grace,  and 
support,  and  submission  to  the  divine  will.  Then  with 
words  of  encouragement  and  comfort  he  spoke  to  Wil 
liam  and  Mary,  and  entreated  them  to  prepare  for  the 
worst. 

Mary's  whole  frame  shook  with  dreadful  fear  as  the 
thought  of  death,  clothed  in  all  its  frightful  terror, 
came  up  before  her.  Her  father  saw  it  would  not  do 
to  pursue  the  subject. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mary  raised  her  thin,  pale 
hand,  and  passed  it  gently  over  William's  face,  scru 
tinizing  with  intensest  accuracy  every  feature. 

"  Changed,  changed,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  as  if 
unconscious  of  what  she  did. 

"Yes,  Mary,  changed  in  appearance  but  not  in  heart." 

She  turned  her  face  to  his.      It   was  beaming   with 


THE   JOURNEY   TO   SALISBURY.  4i>  1 

love.  He  strained  her  to  his  bosom  and  kissed  her. 
He  never  forgot  that  look.  Sleeping  or  waking,  that 
sad  face  with  its  love  look  was  ever  before  him.  "  Oh, 
could  he  but  live  for  her,"  was  the  unheard  ejaculation 
of  his  heart.  "  Yet  not  my  will,  Father,  but  thine." 

A  step  was  heard.  They  knew  its  meaning.  Bun- 
yan  rose,  and  commending  "William  fo  God  bade  him 
farewell,  promising  to  return  the  next  day. 

Mary  threw  herself  weeping  upon  his  neck.  He 
pressed  her  to  his  heart.  He  could  not  speak.  The 
turnkey  opened  the  cell  door  and  asked  the  visitors  to 
depart.  Mary  uttered  a  wild  shriek  as  she  tore  herself 
from  William.  Her  father  caught  her  in  his  arms  and 
bore  her  from  the  cell. 

"  Only  once  more,  father,  let  me  hear  his  voice  and 
feel  his  breath  upon  my  cheek." 

The  father  looked  at  the  jailor.  Great  tears  were  in 
his  eyes.  He  asked  not  permission  to  return,  but  led 
his  daughter  back  through  the  door  into  the  cell. 

Mary  passed  her  hand  once  more  over  William's  face 
and  leaned  on  his  bosom,  then  taking  his  hands  in  hers 
she  held  them  close  and  long. 

Unobserved  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  small  pair 
of  scissors,  and  passing  her  hand  to  his  head  she 
quickly  severed  a  lock  of  chesnut  hair.  It  was  the 
work  of  but  a  moment. 

"  It  is  all  I  shall  have  left,  "William,"  she  said. 
Then  bidding  him  farewell,  she  turned  to  her  father, 
who  bore  her  from  the  prison. 

They  never  met  more  on  earth.  Once  again  Mary 
heard  his  voice.  It  was  in  reply  to  the  questions  of 
the  judge. 


OHAPTER  XLV. 

THE      TRIAL. 

"WOULD  that  we  could  throw  a  vail  over  the  dark 
page  of  history  which  now  follows.  Would  that  the 
rage  of  the  persecutors  could  have  been  satisfied  with 
the  punishment  already  inflicted.  But  they  were 
insatiable,  and  nothing  but  death  could  answer  their 
cruel  desires. 

The  prisoners  were  removed  in  a  few  days  from 
Salisbury  to  Dorchester,  there  to  be  tried.  Ah,  what 
mockery  to  call  such  a  farce  a  trial.  The  case  had 
been  heard,  the  jury  instructed,  verdict  rendered,  and 
sentence  of  death  passed,  before  the  prisoners  were 
arraigned  at  the  bar.  "What  hope,  then,  for  life  ? 

Repeated  efforts  were  made  by  the  friends  of 
"William  Dormer,  to  gain  access  to  him  during  his  stay 
at  Dorchester,  both  before  and  after  the  trial,  but  all 
in  vain.  The  hard  hearts  of  those  who  had  authority 
would  not  relent.  They  gloated  on  the  misery  they 
were  inflicting. 

The  8th  of  September  came.  It  was  the  day  of  trial 
for  "William  Hewling  and  "William  Dormer  and  others, 
Benjamin  Hewling  having  been  sent  to  Taunton. 

At  an  early  hour  the  room  was  filled.  There  sat 
the  judges,  with  iron  brows  and  adamantine  hearts. 
The  hour  of  trial  came.  The  prisoners,  in  their  prison - 
(452) 


THE   TKIAL.  453 

garb,  with  pale  face  and  emaciated  frames,  bearing  on 
their  hands  and  ankles  the  marks  of  the  heavy  irons 
with  which  they  had  been  bound,  were  marched  in 
under  guard  and  seated  on  the  prisoner's  bench.  Their 
calm,  collected  mien,  their  pleasant,  yea  joyous  count 
enances,  their  wasted  bodies,  all  conspired  to  enlist  for 
them  the  sympathies  of  the  by-standers. 

To  all  questions  addressed  to  them  they  answered 
with  cheerful  voice,  in  no  way  endeavoring  to  exten 
uate  their  conduct.  Every  effort  was  made  to  induce 
them  to  express  regret  for  their  past  course.  But  they 
would  not.  Politely  and  respectfully  they  replied  that 
they  had  done  what  they  believed  to  be  right  in  the 
sight  of  God.  They  had  fought  for  the  interest  of 
England,  thereby  endeavoring  to  secure  to  her  religions 
freedom. 

When  asked  if  they  would  repent  their  crime  if 
opportunity  offered,  they  answered  they  could  not  fail 
at  all  times  to  discharge  what  they  conscientiously 
believed  to  be  their  duty,  and  were  they  placed  at 
liberty  they  would  never  hesitate,  God  being  their 
helper,  to  do  what  they  believed  to  be  right. 

This  reply  so  exasperated  the  mob  that  many  of 
them  cried  out,  "  away  with  them  !  away  with  them  to 
the  block !  they  deserve  to  die." 

But  none  of  these  things  daunted  them.  They 
counted  not  their  lives  dear.  They  were  willing  to 
make  any  sacrifice  for  Jesus,  the  great  captain  of  their 
salvation. 

Just  after  the  trial  had  commenced,  and  while  the 
prisoners  were  being  asked  general  questions,  a  com 
motion  was  observed  near  the  entrance  door.  Soon  an 
elderly  man  was  observed,  supporting  on  his  arm  the 


454:  MARY    BUNYAN. 

frail  form  of  a  lovely  girl,  followed  by  two  female 
figures  clad  in  deepest  mourning.  Making  their  way 
through  the  crowd,  they  proceeded  up  the  aisle  or 
open  way,  until  they  stood  just  behind  the  prisoner's 
bench. 

They  were  Bunyan  and  his  daughter  Mary,  and  the 
mother  and  the  sister  of  the  Hewlings.  One  by  one 
the  prisoners  were  tried  personally.  They  all  bore  the 
same  witness. 

Finally  it  came  William  Dormer's  turn.  He  stood 
up  when  commanded,  and  looked  the  judge  in  the  face 
unblushingly.  His  replies,  like  the  others,  were 
characterized  by  calmness  and  adherence  to  his  cause. 
He  knew  not  as  yet  that  she  whom  he  loved  listened 
to  his  every  word. 

"  Prisoner,  have  you  anything  to  say  in  extenuation 
of  your  crime  against  our  most  gracious  king  and  the 
good  of  this  realm  ?"  asked  the  king's  attorney,  a  short, 
thick  set  man,  with  piercing  eye  and  countenance 
fierce  with  hate. 

"  I  have  nothing,"  answered  William  Dormer,  un 
moved,  his  eye  fixed  steadily  on  his  cruel  interrogator. 

"  And  won't  you  say  you  are  sorry  for  what  you 
have  done  ?"  The  attorney's  voice  rose  with  his  anger 
until  he  could  be  heard  all  over  the  house. 

"  I  cannot  say  I  am  sorry.  That  would  be  to  lie  be 
fore  God  and  these  people." 

"  What,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  you  rebel  you,  that 
you  acted  right  and  would  do  the  same  thing  over  ?" 

"This  is  my  belief,"  and  William  stood  erect  with 
steadfast  gaze.  ]STot  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved.  He 
stood  in  conscious  integrity,  and  neither  the  frowns  of 


THE   TKIAL.  455 

the  judge  nor  the  hisses  of  the  people  could  intimidate 
him. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  meet  your  fate,"  retorted  the 
infuriated  attorney,  delighted  that  it  was  in  his  power 
to  be  revenged. 

A  short,  stifled  moan  burst  from  the  blind  girl.  The 
father  uged  her  to  leave,  but  she  could  not.  With  that 
strange  fascination  of  dread  which  often  seizes  the  hu 
man  heart,  she  remained  riveted  to  the  spot. 

"  Take  your  seat."  The  next  prisoner  came  forward. 
It  was  William  Ilewling,  the  last  of  the  number  tried 
that  day.  The  prisoner  obeyed.  The  same  round  of 
questions  was  put  to  him,  and  the  same  answers  re 
ceived  as  before.  "No  menaces,  no  fear  of  death,  could 
cause  to  hesitate  for  a  moment  these  brave  soldiers  of 
the  cross  of  Christ.  They  knew  the  Captain  of  their 
salvation,  and  they  entrusted  all  into  his  hands,  feeling 
assured  that  he  would  bring  them  off  conquerors  and 
make  them  triumphant  over  all  their  foes. 

Low,  subdued  weeping  was  heard  in  that  part  of  the 
room  where  the  friends  of  the  prisoner  sat.  The  jury 
retired  after  having  received  instructions  from  the 
judge. 

After  a  few  moments'  consultation  they  returned 
with  a  verdict  of  "  Guilty"  The  judge  commanded 
the  prisoners  to  stand  up  before  him.  He  then,  in  a 
manner  of  solemn  mockery,  pronounced  the  sentence 
of  condemnation  upon  each  of  the  young  men  before 
him. 

A  loud  shriek  was  heard  as  he  called  the  name  of 
William  Dormer.  Mary  had  fainted  and  fallen  from 
her  seat.  Her  father,  with  the  assistance  of  another, 
took  her  up  and  bore  her  from  the  court-room. 


456  MARY   BUNYAN. 

William  had  heard  the  voice  and  recognized  it.  He 
turned  ;  all  that  his  eye  met  was  the  lifeless  form  of 
Mary  borne  through  the  crowd.  A  heavy  groan  burst 
from  his  heart. 

Deep  and  solemn  was  the  feeling  throughout  that 
large  assemblage,  as  the  prisoners,  so  youthful  yet  so 
firm  for  the  right,  were  conducted  from  the  stand  to  the 
prison.  Groans  were  heard  throughout  the  house,  and 
many  a  tear  of  pity  flowed  from  eyes  that  had  long 
been  dry. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

THE      EXECUTION. 

POOR  Mary.  All  liope  was  now  gone  forever,  and 
her  heart  bowed  beneath  its  weight  of  anguish  never 
again  to  rise.  Her  sensitive  nature  had  received  a 
shock  from  which  it  could  never  recover.  Her  father 
saw  it  and  was  sad.  Surely  the  chastening  hand 
of  God  was  ever  upon  him.  From  the  depths  of  his 
distress  he  cried  out  in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit, 
"  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ?"  He  had  suifered 
greatly  from  want,  from  imprisonment,  from  persecu 
tion,  from  calumny,  and  yet  all  these  seemed  light 
afflictions  compared  with  the  great  sorrow  which  he 
saw  was  ready  to  burst  over  him.  He  prayed  as  he 
had  so  often  done  before,  "  Father,  thy  will,  not  mine, 
only  let  me  have  thy  grace  and  presence  near." 

Mary  was  borne  from  the  court  room  to  the  inn, 
where  she  received  all  attention  from  her  father  and 
the  kind  landlady,  Mrs.  Summers.  As  soon  as  she  was 
sufficiently  recovered,  her  father  proposed  to  her  to 
leave  for  Bedford.  But  she  would  not  consent. 

"  O  father,  dear  father,  let  me  stay,"  she  plead  in 
her  sweet  earnest  voice.  "  Oh  let  me  stay  until  all  is 
over.  It  may  be  I  can  get  to  see  him  once  more,  and 
if  I  could  I  would  die  in  peace.  Father,  let  me  stay." 

The  tender  heart  of  the  father  could  not  deny  her 

(4:57)  20 


458  MART   BUNYAN. 

request.  He  knew  the  hard-heartedness  of  those  who 
held  William  in  confinement  would  forever  bar  the 
prison-doors  against  them,  but  he  would  not  undeceive 
his  daughter. 

"  It  will  be  but  a  few  days  until  all  is  over,  but  if  it 
will  be  any  gratification  to  you,  my  child,  we  will 
Btay." 

"  Do,  father,  do,"  was  all  the  prostrate  girl  could  say 

The  father  watched  over  his  frail  child  with  all  the 
anxious  solicitude  of  his  great  and  loving  heart,  assisted 
by  Hannah  Hewling,  whose  tenderness  to  Mary  on 
this  occasion  was  never  forgotten  by  Bunyan.  Mrs. 
Hewling  left  Dorchester  to  return  to  London  the  morn 
ing  after  the  trial,  hoping  to  effect  something  with  the 
king  in  behalf  of  her  condemned  son.  The  sister  re 
mained  behind  to  solace  and  comfort  him. 

On  the  second  day  after  the  trial,  and  three  days  be 
fore  the  execution,  Mary  was  strong  enough  to  leave 
her  room.  She  insisted  on  being  carried  to  the  prison 
where  William  was.  Her  father  assured  her  it  was  use 
less  to  make  application  for  admittance,  as  he  had  been 
twice  refused  on  the  previous  day.  But  she  urged  her 
suit  with  such  earnestness,  that,  to  gratify  her,  he  con 
sented.  Trembling  from  feebleness  she  stepped  into 
the  carriage  which  stood  in  waiting  for  them  at  the 
door.  When  they  reached  the  prison-gate  they  were 
encountered  by  a  fierce,  savage  looking  man,  who  told 
them  they  could  not  get  in. 

"  Just  this  once,  sir,  this  once,"  plead  Mary. 

"  !N"o,  I  tell  you  you  cannot  get  in.  I  have  my  in 
structions  and  I  dare  not.  It's  no  use  for  you  to  stand 
there  asldng  me.  I  would  lose  my  head  if  I  disobeyed 
orders." 


THE   EXECUTION.  459 

"  Oh  let  us  see  some  officer — some  one  who  has 
authority  to  let  us  in,"  said  Mary,  in  the  agony  of  her 
soul. 

"  It's  no  use,  I  tell  you,  it's  no  use.  The  laws  are 
strict,  and  can't  be  disobeyed.  You  can't  get  in." 

Bunyan  knew  not  what  to  say.  He  saw  the  futility 
of  making  farther  effort,  yet  how  could  he  tell  his 
daughter  there  was  no  hope  ? 

"  Oh  !  can't  we  get  in  ?"  said  the  poor,  blind  girl,  in 
a  tone  of  despair. 

"  No  !  I  tell  you,  no  !"  And  the  man  turned  round 
and  walked  away. 

Mary  fell  into  the  arms  of  her  father  as  one  suddenly 
deprived  of  life.  He  bore  her  to  the  inn. 

Two  days  after  this  event,  William  Dormer,  William 
Hewiing,  and  two  others,  were  removed  from  Dor 
chester  to  Lyrne  for  execution. 

The  13th  of  September,  1685,  came — that  day  so  long 
remembered  in  the  west  of  England  as  being  the  day 
on  which  "  the  young  Monmouth  rebels"  met  their  sad 
fate  with  so  much  courage  and  brave  resignation. 

The  sun  rose  bright  and  beautiful.  It  mourned  not 
over  the  sad  scene.  Nature  was  calm  and  peaceful. 
The  serene,  smiling  heavens,  and  the  beautiful,  quiet 
earth  gave  no  intimation  of  sympathy  with  the  sad  and 
sorrowing  hearts  of  her  children. 

At  an  early  hour  the  gibbet  was  erected.  Throngs 
assembled  from  every  part  of  the  street  to  witness  the" 
dreadful  scene.  Oh  !  it  was  a  horrid  picture  thus  to 
see  men,  women,  and  children,  gathered  together  to 
gaze  on  a  spectacle  so  revolting. 

The  prisoners,  nicely  shaven  and  attired  in  clean 


460  MARY   BUNTAN. 

garbs,  emerged  from  the  prison  gate-way  under  tbo 
escort  of  a  guard  of  armed  soldiers. 

Their  youthful  appearance — their  calm,  yet  courage 
ous  bearing — their  expression  of  joyous  resignation,  all 
conspired  to  excite  for  them  the  deepest  admiration. 

Lamentations  and  cries  of  sorrow  burst  from  the 
multitude  as  they  moved  onward  towards  the  fatal 
spot.  But  none  of  these  things  moved  those  youthful 
witnesses  for  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Christ  Jesus.  Their 
minds  were  fixed  on  heaven  arid  heavenly  things.  By 
the  eye  of  faith  they  were  gazing  on  the  unseen  glories 
of  that  blessed  state  of  rest,  on  which  they  were  so 
soon  to  enter.  Christ  was  with  them.  He,  the  Elder 
Brother,  who  had  gone  before  to  prepare  for  each  a 
mansion,  had  now  eeut  for  them  that  where  He  was 
they  might  be  also. 

They  reached  the  scaffold.  The  hangman  stood 
ready  to  do  his  dreadful  work.  The  first  who  suffered 
was  William  Dormer.  When  he  reached  the  platform 
he  stood  for  a  few  minutes  to  address  the  multitude, 
who  hung  eagerly  on  his  words.  He  assured  them  of 
his  willingness  to  die — of  his  firm  belief  that  he  died 
for  the  cause  of  religious  liberty,  and  the  best  weal  of 
his  unhappy  country.  He  declared  his  strict  adhesion 
to  his  principles,  and  his  firm  faith  in  the  promises  of 
Grod,  exhorting  his  fellow  sufferers  not  to  waver  or 
falter,  for  God  would  stand  by  them  to  give  them 
strength.  He  then  besought  the  multitude  to  look  to 

o  o 

the  Lord  Jes-us  Christ  and  be  saved.  His  countenance 
was  radiant  with  the  truths  he  taught.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  no  fear.  The  crowd  wept  audibly. 

Kneeling,  he  spent  a  few  moments  in  prayer,  in 
which  he  commended  his  spirit  to  God,  earnestly  sup- 


THE  P:XECUTION.  461 

plicating  that  he  would  stand  by  those  who  this  day 
were  to  witness  for  Him  with  their  blood,  and  to  bless 
those,  who,  like  the  maddened  Jews,  knew  not  what 
they  did. 

The  cap  was  adjusted.— The  rope  placed.— A  moment 
more,  and  William  Dormer  was  in  eternity. 

"William  Hewling  was  next  to  suffer.  He  had  seen 
but  nineteen  years.  His  exceedingly  youthful  appear 
ance  and  bold,  courageous  faith,  awoke  for  him  a 
lively  interest.  Many  wished  he  could  be  spared  so 
awful  a  fate.  But  he  answered  them  that  he  would 
not  exchange  situations  with  any  one  in  this  world. 
"  I  would  not  stay  behind  for  ten  thousand  worlds  !" 

Like  William  Dormer,  he  knelt  and  prayed  for  his 
enemies,  and  for  the  presence  of  God  to  support  him 
and  his  friends.  Then,  rising  from  his  knees,  he 
exclaimed  :  "  Oh  !  now  my  joy  and  comfort  is  that  I 
have  a  Christ  to  go  to  !"  And  with  a  sweet  smile  on 
his  countenance,  he  willingly  submitted  to  his  fate. 

The  three  remaining  prisoners  were  soon  dispatched. 
The  work  of  death  was  over.  The  crowd  dispersed. 
A  record  of  this  day's  proceedings  was  made  on  high. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

DARKNESS      GATHERS 
"  Man,  born  of  woman,  is  of  few  days  and  full  of  trouble."— Job. 

THE  arrow  had  found  its  mark.  It  had  pierced  the 
heart  of  the  victim,  never  to  be  removed  until  death 
should  end  the  suffering. 

Mary  and  her  father  remained  at  Dorchester  until 
after  the  execution  of  William  Dormer.  She  would 
have  it  so.  The  father  knew  it  would  prove  a  fearful 
trial  to  his  child,  as  exaggerated  descriptions  of  the 
death-scene  must  necessarily  meet  her  ears :  but  she 
plead  with  such  earnestness  he  could  not  refuse.  She 
wished  to  know  all — even  the  very  worst.  To  her 
mind  dread  reality  was  preferable  to  torturing  sus 
pense.  Bunyan  endeavored  to  sustain  her  with  the 
promises  of  the  eternal  God,  but  in  her  present  state 
of  nervous  excitement  it  appeared  impossible  for  her 
to  lay  hold  on  them.  She  knew  that  God's  dealings 
with  her  were  wise  and  good  ;  but  oh  !  to  feel  sub 
missive  to  His  will  when  that  will  robbed  her  of  the 
dearest  object  earth  contained  !  It  was  hard — too  hard 
for  her  feeble  faith. 

And  how  often  it  is  thus  with  us.  How  often  faith 
grows  so  faint  that  we  cannot  look  up,  nor  beyond  the 
present  evil.  We  feel  forsaken  of  all — and  help  there 

(462) 


DARKNESS   GATHERS.  463 

is  none.  We  feel,  our  Father  hath  forgotten  us,  and 
earth  and  hell  have  leagued  against  us.  But  God  hath 
not  forgotten  to  be  gracious.  Our  Elder  Brother, 
"  touched  with  a  feeling  of  our  infirmities,"  is  near, 
and  when  the  waters  gather  around  us,  when  we  are 
"ready  to  perish,"  His  hand,  though  unseen,  supports 
us  still,  and  delivers  us  from  the  swelling  flood. 

"  Oh,  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord  for  His  won 
derful  works  to  tho  children  of  men." 

"  It  is  all  over  now,  father.  I  can  do  no  more,  and 
we  must  go  home,"  said  Mary  to  her  father,  after  the 
first  violent  shock,  consequent  upon  the  intelligence  of 
"William  Dormer's  death  had  passed  away. 

And  the  two  made  ready  and  set  out  on  their  sorrow 
ful  return. 

The  light  of  love  and  hope  had  gone  out  in  Mary's 
bosom,  and  life  was  now  far  darker  to  her  once  bright 
and  happy  heart  than  was  ever  the  outer  world  to  her 
sealed  eyes. 

She  -did  not  murmur.  Her  grief  was  too  deep  for 
complaint.  Her  voice,  once  so  cheerful,  had  sunk  into 
a  sad  monotone  which  pierced  her  father's  heart  to 
hear.  The  rose  had  faded  from  her  cheek,  the  sweet 
smile  died  out  from  her  lips,  and  her  step  once  so  light 
and  buoyant,  had  become  heavy  and  sluggish.  Sighs 
proceeding  from  the  pent-up  agony  of  her  bosom  es 
caped  her  whenever  she  thought  there  was  no  one  near 
to  listen. 

For  the  sake  of  her  dear  father,  whom  she  knew  suf 
fered  so  intensely  on  her  account,  she  strove  to  hide 
her  grief.  But  oh,  how  vain  the  effort.  It  had  writ 
ten  itself  in  unmistakeable  lines  on  every  lineament  of 
her  lovely  face — in  every  movement  of  her  fragile  form 


464  MARY   BUNYAX. 

The  father  looked  upon  her  as  day  by  day  she  list 
lessly  traced  the  long  and  weary  way  to  Bedford,  and 
his  heart  was  seized  with  dreadful  forebodings.  From 
the  dawn  of  her  being  she  had  been  his  earthly  idol. 
He  had  loved  her  for  her  very  helplessness,  which  had 
caused  her  to  cling  so  closely  to  him.  He  had  seen  her 
struggles  to  support  the  family  during  his  imprison 
ment,  and  while  she  was  yet  scarce  twelve  years  of  age. 
Tie  had  watched  her  development  into  womanhood 
with  feelings  of  deep  gratitude  to  God  for  such  a  pre. 
cious  gift ;  and  then  when  God,  according  to  his  pur 
pose,  and  of  his  sovereign  love  and  mercy,  begat  her  a 
new  life  in  Christ  Jesus,  the  bond  of  union  became 
stronger  and  dearer.  Their  souls  were  knitted  together 
by  indissoluble  ties. 

Bunyan  had  hoped  and  expected  that  Mary  would 
survive  him.  He  had  been  thankful  when  she  made  a 
selection  of  William  Dormer  as  a  companion  for  life, 
for  he  felt  that  in  him  she  would  have  a  kind  friend 
and  noble  protector. 

But  now  William  was  gone.  Had  suffered  an  igno 
minious  death,  and  the  blow  that  laid,  him  low  had 
also  reached  the  heart  of  his  darling  Mary. 

How  fully  his  bowed  soul  realized,  as  he  trod  the 
weary  miles  of  his  return,  that  man's  days  are  full  of 
trouble.  Sorrow  after  sorrow  had  fallen  upon  him  since 
the  time  he  had  forsaken  the  world  to  follow  Jesus.  "  In 
this  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation."  It  is  the  inherit 
ance  of  the  children  of  the  Most  High. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  setting  out  from  Dorchester, 
they  reached  the  little  cottage-home  at  Bedford.  The 
mother  and  Sarah  could  scarcely  refrain  from  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  as  they  beheld  the  changed  ap- 


DARKNESS   GATHERS.  465 

pearance  of  Maiy.  They  bore  her  to  a  seat  (for  she 
was  weary  and  worn),  and  ministered  to  her  comfort. 
They  needed  not  to  question.  The  sad  tale  was  too 
plainly  told  in  that  pale,  meek  face,  and  that  hopeless 
voice.  Joseph  came  in  from  his  day's  engagements. 
He  was  startled  as  he  beheld  his  sister,  and  would  have 
questioned  as  to  her  altered  looks,  but  his  father  mo 
tioned  him  to  be  silent.  The  little  ones  around  the 
hearth-stone  looked  on — their  childish  hearts  filled  with 
wonder  and  mystery  as  they  beheld  the  strange  sad 
scene. 

No  questions  were  asked  in  Mary's  presence.  Not 
the  most  distant  allusion  was  made  to  the  painful  sub 
ject.  They  would  spare  the  fading  lily  each  rude 
blast.  But  eye  spoke  to  eye  the  language  of  the  heart, 
and  that  language  was  one  of  deep,  dark  dread. 

The  evening  meal  was  spread  and  silently  dispatched. 
There  rested  over  that  once  glad  household  a  feeling  of 
dreadful  foreboding.  It  was  the  hushed  stillness  which 
precedes  the  fearful  storm. 

Evening  closed  in.  Around  the  altar  of  prayer  the 
afflicted  family  gathered.  As  once  before  when  sor 
row  encompassed  him,  the  man  of  God  read  the  nine 
tieth  psalm  :  "  O  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling- 
place  in  all  generations.  Before  the  mountains  were 
brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and 
the  world,  even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  thou 
art  God,"  &c.  "When  he  had  finished  reading,  Bunyan 
made  a  few  remarks  on  the  immortality  of  God,  his  na 
ture  and  his  promises,  and  exhorted  his  little  family  to 
trust  Him  who  was  the  same  forever,  knowing  no  vari 
ableness  nor  shadow  of  turning. 

A  simple  hymn  was  sung,  but  Mary  did  not  join  in 
20* 


4:66  MAET   BUNYAN. 

singing.  She  sat  as  was  her  wont  beside  her  father, 
her  hand  resting  on  his  knee  ;  but  her  lips  were  sealed, 
and  her  pale  face  wore  a  look  of  hopeless  agony.  They 
bowed  around  the  altar.  Once,  during  the  fervent 

'  O 

prayer,  allusion  was  made  to  the  horrid  scenes  just  pas 
sed  through.  A  low  sob  burst  from  Mary's  aching  bo 
som.  A  moment  more  and  all  was  still,  save  the 
father's  pleading  voice. 

"  Be  firm,  and  trust  in  God,  my  child,"  was  all  the 
father  could  say  as  he  imprinted  the  good-night  kiss  on 
the  marble  brow.  The  mother  and  Sarah  accompanied 
her  to  bed,  their  hearts  breaking  to  see  the  poor  girl's 
Bufferings,  and  they  longed  in  some  way,  if  possible,  to 
alleviate  them.  Every  little  kindness  that  their  anx 
ious  hearts  could  suggest  was  bestowed,  oh,  so  tenderly 
— and  at  another  time  their  deep  solicitude  and  kindly 
offices  would  have  been  repaid  by  many  a  sweet  smile 
and  grateful  word — but  now  Mary  could  not  smile.  It 
was  to  her  a  sacrilege,  and  words  of  thanks  a  very 
mockery. 

The  mother,  after  seeing  the  last  offices  performed 
necessary  to  render  her  comfortable  for  the  night — bent 
over  her  pillow  and  imprinted  a  tender  kiss  upon  her 
cheek.  "  God  bless  you,  my  child,  God  bless  you," 
she  said,  and  turned  away  with  streaming  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

ELIZABETH     GAUNT. 

ERECT  the  stake  !  Bring  the  straw !  Pile  high  the 
faggots  !  See  the  cords  are  strong  !  Bind  the  unhappy 
victim  !  Let  the  loud  shout  of  the  infuriated  multitude 
deafen  the  heavens  while  the  work  of  death  goes  on. 

"Why  all  this  fearful  preparation  ?  Why  this  wild 
rush  of  incensed  people  ?  Why  this  vast  assemblage  at 
Tyburn,  on  October  23d,  1685  ? 

It  is  the  execution-day  of  Elizabeth  Gaunt.  And  for 
what  is  she  to  die  ?  For  this  :  She  ignorantly  harbored 
a  man,  John  Burton,  who  was  accused  of  being  en 
gaged  in  the  Rye-house  plot.  A  wretch,  who,  under 
the  cloak  of  Non-conformity,  had  gained  shelter  under 
her  hospitable  roof,  and  then  with  that  unparalleled 
meanness  which  characterizes  the  vile  and  cowardly, 
turned  king's  evidence,  and  arraigned  before  the  heart 
less,  fiendish  Jeffries,  the  woman  wTho  had  saved  his 
life  and  protected  him  and  his  family  when  fugitives 
from  justice.  Base,  ignoble  crature  !  Merciless  judge ! 
Infuriated  rabble  !  Day  of  fearful  retribution  ! 

See  !  there  she  comes,  guarded  by  those  savage  look 
ing  men.  Her  face  is  pale  and  wan,  and  her  steps  slow. 
She  has  been  above  a  month  in  prison,  and  no  one  has 
ministered  to  her  as  she  was  always  wont  to  do  to  those 

[467] 


468  MAliY   BUNYAN. 

in  prison  who  were  hungry  and  naked.  Like  the  great 
proto-martyr,  even  the  Lord  Jesus,  her  mien  is  meek 
and  humble,  for  she  bears  within  her  bosom  that  same 
spirit  which  was  also  in  Christ  Jesus.  The  jeers,  and 
taunts,  and  gibes  of  the  crowd  fall  on  her  ear.  She  re 
viles  not  again,  but  rather  prays,  "  Lord,  lay  it  not  to 
their  charge.'" 

Slowly  she  moves  along,  wearing  Her  prisoner's  garb, 
and  on  her  head  a  clean,  wrhite  cap.  She  heeds  not  the, 
multitude  that  crowd  around  her,  each  eager  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  unhappy  victim.  Her  thoughts  are  with 
God,  to  whom  she  commends  her  spirit,  and  whose  for 
giveness  she  seeks  for  those  who  are  shamefully  going 
to  put  her  to  death. 

"  Make  way  !  make  way  !"  the  guards  shout  as  the 
wild,  restless  mob  close  up  the  avenue  leading  to  the 
fearful  stake. 

"  Make  way  !  make  way  !"  is  repeated  in  fiercer  tones 
of  command,  and  the  prisoner  under  escort  moves  on 
through  the  narrow  aisle,  made  by  the  densely  crowded 
ranks,  towards  the  heap  of  straw  and  faggots.  Many 
there  are  in  that  vast  assembly  moved  to  tears  at  her 
Christian  bearing,  and  the  heavenly  expression  of  forti 
tude  which  marks  her  countenance,  while  others  shout, 
in  fiendish  malice,  "  Let  the  traitor  die  !  God  save  the 
King." 

She  reaches  the  stake,  and,  quietly  folding  her  hands 
across  her  bosom,  submits,  without  a  word  of  complaint, 
to  be  bound  thereto.  The  men  perform  their  hellish 
work  with  jests  and  bursts  of  savage  laughter.  She 
heeds  it  not.  She  looks  to  God  for  aid  in  this  her  hour 
of  death.  Her  countenance  is  serene,  over  it  there  plays 


ELIZABETH   GAUNT.  469 

a  look  of  heavenly  light  which  strikes  with  awe  the 
crowd  of  spectators. 

The  work  of  fastening  is  done.  She  speaks  not,  nor 
looks  affrighted  as  the  men  approach  the  pile  with 
lighted  torches. 

As  they  are  about  to  apply  fire  to  the  heap  she  looks 
pityingly  upon  them,  and  the  petition,  "  Father,  lay  it 
not  to  their  charge,"  escapes  her  lips.  Then,  casting  a 
glance  on  the  vast  multitude  of  curious  faces  gazing 
upon  her,  "  Father,  forgive  them — they  know  not  what 
they  do !"  she  prays,  arid  closes  her  eyes.  The  pile  is 
lighted.  Slowly  it  burns  at  first.  But  see !  the  straw 
and  light  wood  have  caught!  Now  the  crackling 
flames  mount  higher  and  higher.  They  have  reached 
the  hem  of  her  garment.  Already  her  feet  are  envel 
oped  in  the  fiery  sheet.  "Will  the  martyr  cry  for  aid  ae 
the  heat  cinders  her  limbs  ?  Ah,  no !  See  her  there — • 
calm  and  collected — looking  to  Jesus. 

How  beautiful  with  divine  trust  is  that  placid  face 
which  knows  no  contraction  or  writhing,  though  the 
flames  have  reached  her  waist  and  are  every  moment 
becoming  hotter  and  hotter.  "What  meekness  in  that 
attitude,  fettered  as  is  the  poor,  consuming  body,  and 
what  heavenly  pity  in  those  eyes  as  they  are  bent  on 
the  eager  mass  about  her. 

Look  !  She  moves.  •  Has  her  stay  failed  her  ? — and 
is  she  striving  to  loose  herself  from  her  tortures.  Ah, 
no  !  God's  grace  is  sufficient.  She  is  only  adjusting 
the  straw  about  her  that  the  horrid  work  of  death  may 
be  the  sooner  over. 

The  crowd  gaze  upon  her,  awe-struck.  How  is  it 
that  a  timid  woman  can  thus  add  to  her  tortures  ? 
Hear  her  answer :  "  I  can  bear  all  things  through 


470  MAKY   BUNTAN. 

Christ,  who  strengtheueth  me."  Ah !  this  is  it — • 
Christ's  right  arm  to  support,  His  loving  voice  to 
whisper  words  of  cheer.  "  To-day  thou  shalt  be  with 
me  in  Paradise."  Hundreds  weep  at  this  manifesta 
tion  of  heavenly  fortitude.  But  the  martyr  is  alike 
insensible  to  their  tears  as  to  their  jests  and  taunts. 
"  Behold  I  see,"  said  the  martyr  Stephen,  "  the  heavens 
opened,  and  the  Son  of  Man  standing  on  the  right  hand 
of  God."  Has  she  not  a  glimpse  of  the  same  glorious 
vision  ? 

Higher  and  higher  ascend  the  raging  fires,  until  soon 
the  whole  body  is  enshrouded  in  an  intensely  glaring, 
flame  sheet.  Tears  of  wonder  and  horror  are  streaming- 
down  the  faces  of  all  the  spectators.  Such  a  sight 
has  never  before  been  witnessed  by  any  present,  for 
Elizabeth  Gaunt  is  the  first  to  suffer  by  fire  during  the 
reign  of  the  brutal  James. 

"Will  she  not  now  shriek  and  cry  out  with  pain  ? 
See,  the  iirea  are  all  around.  No,  no.  Not  one  word 
of  complaint  escapes  her. 

The  three  Hebrew  children  passed  through  the  fires 
unhurt.  The  angel  of  the  Lord  was  with  them.  And 
Elizabeth  Gaunt  went  up  to  heaven  from  the  faggot 
and  the  stake  without  betraying  the  least  fear  or 
suffering.  The  presence  of  the  covenant  angel  sus 
tained  her. 

A  few  moments  more,  and  the  work  is  done.  The 
body,  roasted  and  marred,  is  taken  from  the  stake, 
while  the  affrighted  spectators  close  their  eyes  in 
horror.  She  has  witnessed  for  God,  who  is  her  ever 
lasting  portion,  and  now  her  spirit  sings  the  song  of 
Moses  and  the  Lamb  in  the  holy  city — the  new 
Jerusalem. 


ELIZABETH   GAUNT.  471 

And  did  she  leave  no  testimony  behind  save  what 
she  gave  in  her  death  ?  Let  ns  turn  from  the  stake  to 
the,  prison-cell,  in  Newgate,  where  she  was  confined. 
Here  is  a  folded  paper,  written  by  her  own  hand.  Let 
us  open  and  read  : 

"  Not  knowing  whether  I  shall  be  suffered,  or  able, 
because  of  weaknesses  that  are  upon  me,  through  my 
hard  and  close  imprisonment,  to  speak  at  the  place  of 
execution,  I  have  written  these  few  lines  to  signify 
that  I  am  reconciled  to  the  ways  of  my  God  towards 
me ;  though  it  is  in  wTa}rs  I  looked  not  for,  and  by 
terrible  things,  yet  in  righteousness  ;  for  having  given 
me  life,  he  ought  to  have  the  disposing  of  it,  when  and 
where  he  pleases  to  call  for  it.  And  I  desire  to  offer 
up  my  all  to  him,  it  being  my  reasonable  service,  and 
also  the  first  terms  which  Christ  offers,  that  he  who 
will  be  his  disciple  must  forsake  all  and  follow  him. 
Therefore  let  none  think  hard,  or  be  discouraged  at 
what  hath  happened  unto  me  ;  for  he  hath  done  nothing 
without  cause  in  all  that  he  hath  done  unto  me  ;  he  being 
holy  in  all  his  ways,  and  righteous  in  all  his  works,  and 
it  is  but  my  lot  in  common  with  poor  desolate  Zion  at 
this  day. 

"  Neither  do  I  find  in  my  heart  the  least  regret  at 
anything  I  have  done  in  the  service  of  my  Lord  and 
Master,  Jesus  Christ,  in  securing  and  succoring  any  of 
his  poor  sufferers,  that  hate  showed  favor,  as  I  thought, 
to  his  righteous  cause ;  which  cause,  though  it  be  now 
fallen  and  trampled  on,  yet  it  may  revive,  and  God 
may  plead  it  at  another  time  more  than  he  hath  ever 
yet  done,  with  all  its  opposers  and  malicious  haters. 
And  therefore,  let  all  that  love  and  fear  him  not  omit 
the  least  duty  that  comes  to  hand  or  lies  before  them, 


4:72  MAKY   BCNYAN. 

knowing  that  now  Christ  hath  need  of  them,  and 
expects  they  should  serve  him.  Arid  I  desire  to  bless 
Iris  holy  name  that  lie  Lath  made  me  useful  in  my 
generation,  to  the  comfort  and  relief  of  many  desolate 
ones ;  that  the  blessing  of  many  who  were  ready  to 
perish  hath  come  upon  me,  and  I  helped  to  make  the 
widow's  heart  leap  for  joy. 

"  And  I  bless  his  holy  name  that  in  all  this,  together 
with  what  I  was  charged  with,  I  can  approve  my  heart 
to  him,  that  I  have  done  his  will,  though  it  may  cross 
man's.  The  Scriptures  which  satisfy  me  are  these  • 
'  Hide  the  outcasts ;  betray  not  him  that  wandereth. 
Let  mine  outcasts  dwell  with  thee  :  be  thou  a  covert 
to  them  from  the  face  of  the  spoiler.  Thou  shouklst 
not  have  delivered  up  those  of  his  that  did  remain  in 
the  day  of  distress.'  [Isa.  xvi.  3,  4  ;  Obad.  12,  13,  U.] 
But  men  say  you  must  give  them  up,  or  die  for  it. 
Kow  whom  to  obey,  judge  ye.  So  that  I  have  cause 
to  rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad,  in  that  I  '  suifer  for 
righteousness'  sake,'  and  that  I  am  counted  worthy  to 
suffer  '  for  well  doing ;'  and  that  God  hath  accepted 
any  service  from  me,  which  hath  been  done  in 
sincerity,  though  mixed  with  manifold  infirmities, 
which  he  hath  been  pleased  for  Christ's  sake  to  cover 
and  forgive. 

"  And  now  as  concerning  my  crime,  as  it  is  now 
called  ;  alas,  it  was  but  a  little  one,  and  such  as  might 
well  become  a  prince  to  forgive.  But  he  that  shows 
no  mercy  shall  find  none  ;  and  I  may  say  of  it,  in  the 
language  of  Jonathan,  '  I  did  but  taste  a  little  honey, 
and  lo,  I  must  die  for  it' — I  did  but  relieve  an 
unworthy,  poor,  distressed  family,  and  lo,  I  must  die 
for  it.  "Well,  I  desire  in  the  lamb-like  nature  of  the 


ELIZABETH    GAUNT.  473 

gospel  to  forgive  those  that  are  concerned  ;  and  t  >  say, 
'  Lord,  lay  it  not  to  their  charge  !'  But  I  fear  he  will 
not;  nay,  I  believe,  when  he  comes  to  make  inquisi 
tion  for  blood,  it  will  be  found  at  the  door  of  the 
furious  judge,  who,  because  I  could  not  remember 
things,  through  my  dauntedness  [confusion]  at  Bur 
ton's  wife  and  daughter's  witness,  and  my  ignorance, 
took  advantage  of  it,  and  would  not  hear  me  when  I 
had  called  to  mind  that  which  I  am  sure  would  have 
invalidated  the  evidence.  And  though  he  granted 
something  of  the  same  kind  to  another,  he  denied  it  to 
me.  At  that  time  my  blood  will  also  be  found  at  the 
door  of  the  unrighteous  jury,  who  found  me  guilty  on 
the  single  oath  of  an  outlawed  man  ;  for  there  was 
none  but  his  oath  about  the  money,  who  is  no  legal 
witness,  though  he  be  pardoned,  his  outlawry  not 
being  reversed,  also  the  law  requiring  two  witnesses  in 
point  of  treason.  As  to  my  going  with  him  to  the 
place  mentioned,  namely,  the  Hope,  it  was  by  his  own 
word  before  he  could  be  outlawed,  for  it  was  about 
two  months  after  his  absconding.  So  that  though  he 
was  in  a  proclamation,  yet  not  for  high  treason,  as  I 
am  informed  ;  so  that  I  am  clearly  murdered.  And 
also  bloody  Mr.  Atterbury,  who  had  so  insatiably 
hunted  after  my  life,  though  it  is  no  profit  to  him,  yet 
through  the  ill  will  he  bears  me,  left  no  stone  unturned, 
as  I  have  ground  to  believe,  till  he  brought  it  to  this, 
and  showed  favor  to  Burton,  who  ought  to  have  died 
for  his  own  fault,  and  not  to  have  bought  his  own  life 
with  mine.  Captain  Kichardson,  who  is  cruel  and 
severe  to  all  under  my  circumstances,  did,  at  that 
time,  without  any  mercy  or  pity,  hasten  my  sentence, 
and  held  up  my  hand  that  it  might  be  given.  All 


4-74  MARY   BUNYAN. 

which,  together  with  the  great  one  of  all,  [James  II., 
who  had  just  come  to  the  throne,  carrying  on  his 
brother's  proceedings,]  by  whose  power  all  these  and 
multitudes  more  of  cruelties  are  done.  I  do  heartily 
and  freely  forgive  as  against  me  ;  but  as  it  is  done  in 
an  implacable  mind  against  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
his  righteous  cause  and  followers,  I  leave  it  to  Him 
who  is  the  avenger  of  all  such  wrong,  and  '  who  will 
tread  upon  princes  as  upon  mortar,  and  be  terrible  to 
the  kings  of  the  earth.' 

"  Know  this  also,  that  though  you  are  seemingly 
fixed,  and  because  of  the  power  in  your  hands  are 
weighing  out  your  violence,  and  dealing  with  a  spite 
ful  mind,  because  of  the  old  and  new  hatred,  by 
impoverishing  and  every  way  distressing  those  you 
have  got  under  you  ;  yet  unless  you  can  secure  Jesus 
Christ,  and  also  his  holy  angels,  you  shall  never  do 
your  business,  nor  shall  your  hand  accomplish  your 
enterprise.  He  will  be  upon  you  ere  you  are  aware  ; 
and  therefore  that  you  would  be  wise,  instructed,  and 
learn,  is  the  desire  of  her  that  finds  no  mercy  from 
you  !  "  ELIZABETH  GAUNT." 

"P.  S.  Such  as  it  is,  you  have  from  the  hand  of  her 
who  hath  done  as  she  could,  and  is  sorry  that  she  can 
do  no  better ;  hopes  you  will  pity,  and  consider,  and 
cover  weaknesses  and  shortness,  and  anything  that  is 
wanting ;  and  begs  that  none  may  be  weakened  or 
stumble  by  my  lowness  of  spirit ;  for  God's  design  is 
to  humble  and  abase,  that  he  alone  may  be  exalted  in 
that  day.  And  I  hope  he  may  appear  in  a  needful 
time  and  hour,  and  it  may  be  he  will  reserve  the  best 
wine  till  the  last,  as  he  hath  done  for  some  before  me. 
None  goeth  a  warfare  at  his  own  charges,  and  the 


ELIZABETH    GAUNT.        .  475 

Spirit  blows  only  where  and  when  it  listeth ;  and  it 
becomes  me  who  have  so  often  grieved  it  and 
quenched  it,  to  wait  for  and  upon  his  motions,  and  not 
to  murmur;  but  I  may  mourn,  because  through  the 
want  of  it,  I  honor  not  my  God  nor  his  blessed  cause, 
which  I  have  so  long  loved,  and  delighted  to  serve  ; 
and  repent  of  nothing,  but  that  I  have  served  it  and 
him  no  better." 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

THE     DEATH      SCENE. 

IN  viewing  life  as  it  really  is,  aside  from  the  gloss  of 
tlie  imagination,  and  the  deceitful  halo  which  earthly- 
hope  throws  round  it,  we  find  more  of  sorrow  than  of 
joy.  "  Man  is  of  few  days,  and  full  of  trouble."  This 
is  the  teaching  of  Holy  "Writ ;  the  declaration  of  Him 
who  created  us ;  the  sad,  sad  lesson  of  experience, 
which,  sooner  or  later,  all  must  know.  And  well  it  is 
for  ns,  if  we,  as  children,  sit  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  to 
learn  of  him,  so  that  when  the  storm  shall  come  we 
shall  find  safe  covert  in  his  cleft  side.  The  "  Lord 
uses  his  flail  of  tribulation  to  separate  the  chaff  from 
the  wheat."  Happy  is  the  man  who  recognizes  his 
hand,  and  bows  submissive  to  his  chastening  rod. 

"  Frail  flower !    Earth's  winds  for  thcc  too  chill, 
Thou  fadcst  here, — to  bloom  in  heaven." 

Throw  open  the  windows !  Let  the  glorious  sunlight 
of  heaven  look  in  upon  tho  peaceful  scene,  and  the  rose 
and  hawthorn  breathe  their  sweet  fragrance  round  the 
dying  pillow ! 

The  silver  cord  is  loosing — the  sands  of  life  fast  ebb 
ing  away.  Tread  lightly  !  'Tis  a  sacred,  solemn  hour. 
A  mortal  is  about  to  put  on  immortality — a  captive  to 
be  freed.  A  pilgrim  stranger,  who  has  long  journeyed 

[47G] 


THE   DEATH    SCENE.  477 

towards  tlie  heavenly  city,  is  about  to  lay  down  the 
staff,  and  exchange  the  tattered  garments  of  earth  for 
the  glorious  vesture  of  heaven.  Angels,  on  invisible 
wing  are  hovering  over  the  scene.  They  wait  to  bear 
the  ransomed  soul,  escaping  from  its  house  of  clay, 
away  from  earth — up,  up,  beyond  the  shining  sun  and 
the  pale,  solemn  stars,  to  the  paradise  of  God.  And  as 
they  wait,  they  sing  in  sweet,  soft  strains  that  reach 
the  dying  ear,  choruses  of  heavenly  melody.  They 
sing  of  the  pearly  gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ;  its 
shining  streets  ;  of  the  "  pure  river  of  water,  clear  as 
crystal ;"  "  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb  ;"  the  "  tree 
of  life  j'^f  the  redeemed  clad  in  robes  of  dazzling 
white  ;  of  cherubim  and  seraphim,  and  God  and  the 
Lamb  in  the  midst  thereof.  What  enrapturing  strains  ! 
Wonder  we  that  the  sweet,  calm  face,  lights  up  with 
more  than  earthly  beauty,  and  the  pale,  quivering  lips 
murmur,  "  come  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly  !" 

The  Master  had  called  Mary  Banyan,  and  she  had 
listed  his  voice.  So  she  went  about  putting  her  house 
in  order,  that  she  might  be  ready  for  the  change  which 
awaited  her. 

She  had  been  fading,  fading,  through  long  weary 
months.  Ever  since  the  fatal  blow  she  received  in 
William  Dormer's  death,  the  light  of  life  had  been 
waning.  She  knew  when  the  autumn  flowers  passed 
away  that  she  had  looked  upon  them  for  the  last  time, 
and  when  "  merrie  Christmas"  came  with  its  sports  and 
carols,  and  invited  her  to  its  enjoyments,  she  turned 
not  aside  at  its  call  of  mirth  ;  she  was  journeying 
towards  the  heavenly  city,  with  her  eye  steadily  fixed 
upon  its  ravishing  glories.  Could  she,  for  a  moment 
forget  them  for  the  dull,  cold  scenes,  of  earth  ? 


478  MART    BUNT  AN. 

Spring  flowers  bloomed.  And  nature,  clad  in  all 
her  gorgeous  loveliness,  enticingly  wooed  her  to  its 
banquet  of  beauty.  But  her  pulse  was  slow  now,  and 
her  step  tottering,  and  she  could  only  walk,  supported 
by  the  arm  of  Sarah,  across  the  little  close  in  front  of 
the  house  to  the  hawthorn  beyond. 

Her  father  saw  with  aching  heart  the  slow  and 
painful  change.  He  did  not  deceive  himself,  as  is  often 
the  case,  with  flattering  hopes  of  the  spring's  recover 
ing  influences.  He  knew  that  his  poor  blind  child, 
who  had  so  bravely  fought  the  fearful  battle  of  life, 
was  now  about  to  lay  aside  the  armor  of  warfare,  to 
rest  peacefully.  And  the  mother,  and  sffeter,  and 
brothers,  too,  were  bowed  beneath  the  fearful  weight. 
Even  the  little  ones  had  caught  the  fear,  and  their 
laugh  was  less  ringing,  and  their  footfall  lighter  as  they 
came  into  the  presence  of  the  pale,  meek  sufferer. 

Frequent  were  the  conversations  of  father  and 
daughter  on  the  subject  of  the  approaching  change. 
Bunyan  spoke  with  unwavering  faith  of  tho  promises 
of  the  gospel,  and  the  dying  girl's  heart  responded 
"  Amen."  The  Spirit  bore  witness  with  her  spirit  that 
she  was  a  child  of  God,  an  heir  to  all  the  promises  of 
the  Eternal. 

It  was  a  sweet,  fresh  evening  in  May,  that  Mary, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  faithful  sister,  walked  to  the 
hawthorn  hedge,  and  seated  herself  beside  it. 

"  O  come,  sister,"  she  said,  in  a  sweet,  calm  voice, 
"  for  the  last  time  to  this  little  seat."  Her  pale  hand 
rested  on  the  lap  of  Sarah,  while  the  feeble  head 
reclined  against  her  bosom. 

"  O  Sister,  you  are  not  worse.  What  mak%s  you 
talk  to  me  so?"  replied  the  loving  girl.  Yet  her 


THE     DEATH    SCENE.  479 

heart  misgave  her.  She  felt  the  sufferer's  words  were 
too  true. 

"  I  know  it,  Sarah,  I  know  it.  My  days  on  earth 
are  almost  over.  A  few  more  hours  of  pain,  and  then 
I  go  away  to  Jesus." 

Sarah's  heart  was  too  full.  She  could  make  no 
reply.  She  pressed  the  invalid  more  tenderly  to  her 
bosom,  while  the  tears  streamed  down  her  saddened 
face. 

Bunyan  came  across  the  fields  from  Bedford,  where 
he  had  been  preaching.  Approaching  his  daughters, 
he  saw  the  change  that  had  come  over  Mary. 

"  Come,  children,"  he  said,  "  we  will  go  in.  The  air 
is  getting  damp,  mid  Mary  must  not  be  exposed* to  it, 
lest  she  take  cold." 

He  gently  raised  her  from  her  sister's  bosom,  and 
supported  her  slow,  languid  steps  to  the  cottage  door. 
She  passed  its  threshold.  It  was  the  last  time. 

Gently  the  father  placed  her  on  her  low  cot,  and 
tenderly  he  smoothed  back  the  hair  from  her  marble 
forehead,  and  chafed  the  attenuated  hands,  while  the 
big  tears  stood  in  his  sad,  blue  eyes. 

Day  by  day  fled  by,  until  six  were  numbered.  The 
dying  girl  suffered  much,  but  no  word  of  complaint 
escaped  her.  All  that  parental  care  and  kind  sympa 
thy  could  suggest  was  done  to  alleviate  her  pain.  The 
father  was  untiring  in  his  watchfulness  and  attentions, 
and  his  words  of  heavenly  instruction  were  a  great 
stay  to  Mary's  failing  heart. 

"  Yes,  yes,  father,"  she  would  say,  as  the  old  man 
would  repeat  to  her  the  promises.  "  I  know  these 
words  are  true.  He  will  never  leave  nor  forsake  me. 
I  once  dreaded  death,  but  now  I  find  it  has  no  sting. 


480  MART    BUNYAN. 

Jesus  has  removed  it  by  suffering  for  me.  I  long  to 
go  to  be  with  him,  where  I  shall  see  him  as  he  is. 
Father,  don't  you  think  1  shall  see  in  heaven  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  I  do.     There  is  no  affliction  there 
You  will  look  upon  Jesus,  Mary,  for  yourself;  shall 
see  him  who  died  for  you." 

"  It  is  a  glorious  thought,  father,  that  these  poor 
eyes,  that  have  so  long  been  sealed,  shall  there  see  the 
King  in  his  beauty.  Oh,  how  I  long  to  go !  But  I 
must  wait  patiently  until  my  time  comes,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  my  child,"  said  the  father,  in  a 
broken  voice. 

u]Sfot  long,  father.     Already  I  seem  to  be  going." 

The  father  took  the  motionless  hand  in  his,  and  felt 
the  thin  wrist.  It  was  almost  pulseless.  Grief  filled 
his  heart,  but  he  heaved  no  groan,  uttered  no  sigh.  "  It 
was  the  Lord's  doing  ;"  and  while  he  yearned  over  his 
first-born  with  all  the  tenderness  and  sympathy  of  his 
great,  loving  heart,  he  knew  that  his  afflicted  child  was 
on  the  verge  of  that  heavenly  glory  which  "  eye  hath 
not  seen." 

It  was  the  morning  of  a  calm,  sweet  Sabbath  that 
Mary  and  her  father  thus  talked.  Cheerfully  and  beau 
tifully  she  spoke  of  the  rest  on  \vhich  she  was  so  soon 
to  enter.  Her  face  lightened  up,  and  her  darkened 
eyes  would  turn  heavenward  as  she  dwelt  upon  the  joy 
that  was  just  before  her. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  with  it  wore  away  the  life 
of  Mary.  Fainter  and  fainter  grew  her  breath  ;  feeble 
and  yet  more  feeble,  her  life  pulse. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  West.  The  sweet,  fresh  air 
of  heaven  stole  in.  through  the  open  windows.  On  a 


THE   DEATH   SCENE.  481 

low  cot,  where  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  over  the 
thin,  wasted  form,  lay  Mary  Bunyan  with  closed  eyes, 
her  bosom  scarcely  moved  by  the  slow,  faint  breath. 
The  stricken  family  stood  round.  In  silent  grief  they 
were  awaiting  the  exit  of  the  escaping  spirit.  All  was 
hushed,  solemn.  No  word  was  spoken.  Each  broken 
heart  looked  steadfastly  on  that  loved  form  so  soon  to 
pass  from  their  gaze  forever.  Ah  !  it  was  a  moment 
of  sad  trial,  but  it  was  also  a  time  of  humble  submis 
sion. 

The  thin  hand  moves  upward.  The  sightless  eyes 
open,  and  turn  to  heaven.  The  pale  lips  murmur, "  Come 
Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly."  Then  there  steals  over 
the  pallid  countenance  a  smile  of  ineffable  beauty. 
The  hands  fall  motionless  on  the  bosom  ; — a  gasp — a 
breath — and  all  is  ended. 

The  wasted  form  is  there.  The  spirit,  borne  by  an 
gels  up  though  the  realms  of  ether,  is  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  the  Great  King,  Now  the  poor  blind  girl 
sees  even  as  she  is  seen,  knows  even  as  she  is  known. 
A  crown  and  a  harp  are  given  her,  and  she  joins  with 
rapturous  ecstacy  in  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb. 

Subdued  weeping  is  heard  throughout  the  room.  The 
holy  man  of  God  kneels  beside  the  inanimate  form, 
and  prays  the  blessing  of  God  on  himself  and  stricken 
ones. 

The  next  day  the  neighbors  and  friends  gathered  in, 
and  the  remains  of  the  poor  blind  girl  were  borne  from 
the  little  cottage,  and  deposited  beside  those  of  her 
mother  in  the  burying  ground  of  the  church  at  Elstow. 
From  this  sad  event  Bunyan  never  entirely  recovered. 
It  was  a  dark  shadow  all  along  his  pathway  until  he, 

too,  came  to  lie  down  peacefully  in  the  silent  tomb. 

21 


CHAPTER    L. 

A     BRIEF     GLANCE     AT     BTJNYAN's     LIFE     AFTEB 

HIS     RELEASE      FROM     BEDFORD      JAI  L 

HIS    DEATH. 

SIXTEEN  years  elapsed  from  the  time  of  Banyan's  re 
lease  to  the  time  of  his  death.  During  this  period  he 
was  a  man  of  toil  ;  not  that  he  worked  at  his  trade  as 
a  tinker — of  this  we  have  no  evidence, — but  he  was  a 
laborer  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord. 

As  we  have  before  said,  Bunyan  had  been  chosen 
pastor  by  the  church  at  Bedford,  "  to  whose  edification 
he  had  long  administered,"*  more  than  a  year  before 
his  imprisonment  terminated.  His  confinement  could 
not  at  that  time  have  been  as  rigid  as  the  law  required. 
We  are  assured  that  he  found  a  sympathizing  friend  in 
the  jailer,  and  to  this  we  must  ascribe  his  privileges. 

This  pastorship  continued  uninterrupted  up  to  the 
time  of  his  death.  But  his  labors  were  not  confined  to 
the  people  of  his  charge.  He  went  "  everywhere, 
preaching  the  gospel,"  and  that,  too,  at  his  imminent 
peril. 

So  severe  were  the  enactments  against  Dissenters  un 
der  the  reign  of  the  cruel  James,  that  they  were  com 
pelled  to  worship  God  under  the  cover  of  night,  with 
sentinels  placed  round  the  building  to  give  the  signal 

*  Life  of  John  Bunyan.    Published  by  Am.  S.  8.  Union.     Page  270. 


A   BRIEF   GLANCE.  483 

of  alarm  if  any  stranger  approached.  Every  precau 
tion  possible  was  resorted  to  to  elude  the  merciless 
grasp  of  the  bloody  monster.  Hymns  were  dispensed 
with  entirely  in  their  worship,  and  means  were  used  to 
lessen  the  sound  of  the  preacher's  voice,  as  he  exhorted 
his  brethren  to  remain  steadfast  and  immovable. 

Often  the  midnight  hour  found  the  people  of  God 
assembled  in  some  lowly  spot — some  isolated 
dwelling,  or  the  silent  forests  of  Hitchen,  to  call  upon 
the  name  of  the  Lord  Jehovah,  and  supplicate  his 
mercy.  And  oftentimes  the  first  faint  light  of  the 
gray  morning  dawn  saw  them  returning  to  their  homes 
after  having  listened  to  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Christ 
Jesus  from  the  lips  of  the  beloved  Bunyan. 

Bunyan  had  oftentimes  to  disguise  himself  in  the 
smock  coat  of  a  teamster,  and  thus  attired,  with  a  cart- 
man's  whip  in  his  hand,  he  would  be  admitted  through 
the  back  yard,  and  then  through  the  kitchen  door,  and 
thus  introduced  to  the  little  band  of  disciples  who 
eagerly  received  from  him  the  bread  of  life.  And 
sometimes,  too,  he  had  to  escape  thus  disguised 
through  back  doors  and  windows,  that  he  might  not 
fall  into  the  hands  of  his  rapacious  pursuers. 

Bunyan's  labors  were  not  confined  to  his  own  imme 
diate  vicinity.  He  went  on  missionary  work  into  the 
counties  of  Hereford,  Buckingham,  Huntingdon,  and 
Cambridge,  portions  of  the  kingdom  less  favored  with 
the  gospel  than  was  Bedford. 

But  Bunyan  did  not  employ  his  time  wholly  in 
preaching.  He  wielded  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,  and 
devoted  many  of  his  hours,  during  the  later  years  of  his 
life,  to  authorship.  He  was  sixty  years  old  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  and  he  had  produced  sixty  works, 


484:  MARY    BUNYAN. 

one  for  each  year  of  his  life.  Many  of  these  produc 
tions  were  written  after  he  left  Bedford  jail.  The 
number  of  them  shows  him  to  have  been  a  man  of 
devoted  energy  to  his  undertakings.  He  must  have 
written  both  late  and  early  thus  to  have  given  to  the 
world  such  a  large  collection  of  manuscript,  in  addition 
to  his  work  as  pastor,  and  tinker,  and  preacher. 
Beside  all  this,  he  had  his  family  to  care  for.  In  his 
faithful  Elizabeth  he  had  a  help-meet  indeed  ;  but; 
Bunyan  did  not  choose  to  let  the  whole  burden  of 
domestic  duty  rest  upon  her.  He  was  still  poor, 
though  enabled,  through  the  frugality  of  his  wife  and 
his  own  industry,  together  with  the  kindness  of  those 
to  whom  he  administered  in  spiritual  matters,  to  enjoy 
a  fair  competence,  thus  being  relieved  from  the  canker 
of  poverty,  which  had  so  worn  upon  his  strong  heart 
while  he  was  in  jail. 

His  preaching  was  greatly  blessed  of  the  Lord.  It 
was  of  that  practical,  searching  nature,  that  no  one 
could  remain  unmoved  under  his  sermons.  He  did 
not  gloss  over  the  truths  of  the  gospel,  thereby  keeping 
men  in  carnal  security  merely  to  please  their  sinful 
fancy,  but  spoke  as  one  would  declare  the  whole 
oracle  of  God — warning  sinners  to  flee  from  the  wrath 
to  come  ;  arousing  by  earnest  appeals  the  careless 
professor,  and  building  up  in  the  most  holy  faith  the 
children  of  God. 

He  was  also  a  peace-maker — a  character  that  his 
great  goodness  of  heart  and  superior  judgment  admir 
ably  h'tted  him  for.  And  the  last  act  of  his  life  was 
one  which  entitled  him  to  that  promise  of  the  Saviour, 
"Blessed  are  the  peace-makers,  for  they  shall  be 
called  the  children  of  God." 


A   BBIEF   GLANCK.  485 

A  father,  residing  at  Reading,  beyond  London,  had 
become  very  greatly  displeased  with  his  son,  who  lived 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Bunyan.  The  son  understood 
that  his  father  was  so  highly  incensed  as  to  be  about 
to  cut  him  off  from  any  share  in  his  property.  Know 
ing  his  father's  unyielding  disposition,  he  feared  it  was 
too  true.  Not  wishing  to  be  thus  unjustly  dealt  with, 
and  yet  not  daring  to  approach  into  the  presence  of  his 
injured  parent,  he  hit  upon  Bunyan  as  the  only  man 
who  could  likely  effect  a  reconciliation.  Bunyan,  with 
that  great  desire  for  good  which  so  strongly  marked 
the  years  of  his  eventful  life,  on  hearing  a  plain  state 
ment  of  the  facts,  readily  undertook  the  case. 

He  visited  the  father,  and  by  his  earnest  persuasions 
and  truthful  representation  of  the  demands  of  the  law 
of  Christ,  succeeded  in  effecting  his  object.  The 
father  not  only  forgave  the  son,  but  reinstated  him  in 
his  favor  and  fortune. 

Bunyan's  work  of  reconciliation  being  accomplished, 
he  set  out  to  return  home  by  way  of  London.  It  was 
in  the  month  of  August,  1688.  A  heavy,  chilling  rain 
fell  throughout  the  day.  But  on  he  rode,  anxious  to 
reach  the  bosom  of  his  family.  He  did  not  dream 
that  he  was  nearer  heaven  than  home. 

Perhaps,  with  his  own  toil-worn  Pilgrim,  he  was 
enabled  by  faith  to  look  on  the  Delectable  Mountains, 
and  dwell  in  the  goodly  land  of  Beulah,  and  have 
enrapturing  visions  of  the  New  Jerusalem. 

God  oftentimes  vouchsafes  to  his  children  joys  and 
consolations  of  the  most  ecstatic  character  when  all 
things  earthly  seem  darkest  and  most  opposed.  He 
takes  from  us  the  support  of  the  arm  of  flesh  that  we 
may  learn  to  lean  on  him.  And  where  can  the  child 


486  MAKY  BUN Y AN. 

of  God  find  such  happiness  as  when,  looking  up,  he 
can  say  with  steadfast  heart,  Abba  Father  ? 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Bunyan  arrived  at  the  house 
of  a  long-tried  friend,  a  Mr.  Strudick,  grocer,  of  Snow 
Hill.  His  clothes  were  complete^  drenched  with  the 
rain  that  had  been  filling  continuously  through  the 
day.  His  health  had  been  somewhat  poor  for  several 
months  past,  and  soon  after  reaching  his  friend's  house, 
he  was  seized  with  something  like  an  ague  fit,  which 
continued  to  increase  until  he  was  forced  to  take  his  bed. 
Everything  was  done  for  his  comfort  and  relief  that 
love  could  suggest.  But  his  indisposition  continued  to 
assume  a  more  serious  form,  until  a  violent  fever  set 
in.  He  then  felt  that  his  days  on  earth  were  num 
bered,  and  so  told  his  kind  host. 

Great  anxiety  was  felt  throughout  the  circle  of  his 
acquaintances  in  London  when  it  was  made  known  that 
he  was  ill,  and  many  were  the  prayers  that  went  up 
for  his  recovery.  But  God,  who  doeth  all  things  well, 
had  ordained  otherwise.  The  Master  had  need  of  him. 
His  poor  pilgrim  had  been  buffeted  and  tossed  on  the 
rough  sea  of  life  long  enough.  He  had  fought  a  good 
fight.  He  must  now  go  up  to  receive  his  reward,  even 
a  crown  of  everlasting  joy  and  glory. 

And  let  us  look  at  the  worn  soldier,  as  he  lays  aside 
his  armor  and  prepares  for  rest.  How  does  he  bear 
himself,  now  that  the  battle  is  fought,  the  victory 
won?  What  is  his  hope  and  consolation  in  view  of 
the  great  change  through  which  he  is  so  soon  to  pass  ? 

"We  are  told  that  "  His  prayers  were  fervent  and 
frequent ;  and  he  even  so  little  minded  himself  as  to 
the  concerns  of  this  life,  that  he  comforted  those  that 
wept  about  him  exhorting  them  to  trust  in  God  and 


A.  BKIEF   GLANCE.  487 

pray  to  him  for  mercy  and  forgiveness  of  their  sins, 
telling  them  what  a  glorious  exchange  it  would  be,  to 
leave  the  troubles  and  cares  of  a  wretched  mortality  to 
live  with  Christ  for  ever,  with  peace  and  joy  inexpres 
sible  ;  expounding  to  them  the  comfortable  Scriptures 
by  which  they  were  to  hope,  and  assuredly  come  unto 
a  blessed  resurrection  in  the  last  day.  He  desired 
some  to  pray  with  him,  and  he  joined  with  them  in 
prayer,  and  his  last  words,  after  he  had  struggled  with 
a  languishing  disease,  were — '  Weep  not  for  me,  but  for 
yourselves.  I  go  to  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus,  who 
will,  no  doubt,  through  the  mediation  of  his  blessed  Son, 
receive  me,  though  a  sinner,  where  I  hope  ere  long  we 
shall  meet  to  sing  the  new  song,  and  remain  ever 
lastingly  happy,  world  withouc  end.  Amen  !'  ' 

"  Now  while  he  was  thus  in  discourse,  his  counte 
nance  changed,  his  strong  man  bowed  under  him  ;  and 
after  he  had  said  '  Take  me,  for  I  am  come  unto  thee/ 
the  Lord  took  him,  and  he  ceased  to  be  seen  of  men. 

"  But  glorious  it  was  to  see  how  the  open  region  was 
filled  with  horses  and  chariots,  with  trumpeters  and 
fifers,  with  singers  and  players  on  stringed  instruments, 
to  welcome  the  pilgrims  as  they  went  up  and  followed 
one  another  in  at  the  Beautiful  Gate  of  the  City ;  and 
on  it  was  written,  in  letters  of  gold,  '  Blessed  are  they 
that  do  His  commandments,  that  they  may  have  a 
right  to  the  Tree  of  Life,  and  may  enter  in  through  the 
gates  of  the  city.' ': 

On  the  last  day  of  August,  1688,  at  the  age  of  sixty, 
the  good  man  died.  He  was  buried  in  Bunhill  Fields, 
then  in  the  suburbs  of  London. 

All  that  now  remains  to  mark  the  spot  of  his  burial 


488  MARY    BUNYAN. 

is  an  ancient  square  tomb,  whose  inscriptions  have  all 
mouldered  away,  save  this  simple  one  : 

"MR.  JOHN  BUNTAE", 

AUTHOR     OF     THE     PILG-RIM's     PROGRESS. 

Obt.  31st  August,  1688,  at.  60." 

In  three  short  years  Elizabeth  followed  her  faithful 
pilgrim  to  dwell  in  the  celestial  city,  in  the  presence 
of  her  King  and  her  husband  for  ever.  ^ 


THE    END. 


A     000  138  294     A 


